


These Boots Are Made For

by What_About_Bugs



Series: Antivan Dalish Walks into a Conclave [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hey Guess Who Has The Correct Accent, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Irish/Welsh Accented Elfboy Hours, It's Lavellan, Lore friendly, Loss of Faith, M/M, Major Illness, Multiclass Headcanons, Non-Canon Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Past Child Abuse, Politics, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, dalish elven headcanons, dear god let mages use swords, realest sad boy hours, relatively, slightly less emotional baggage, yucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:27:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 45,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26324143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/What_About_Bugs/pseuds/What_About_Bugs
Summary: Spoilers for Trespasser DLC.Two years have come and gone, but still the Anchor continues to bore its way into Lavellan's skin. His nightmares grow more frequent and the aching pains (and the scarring left in its wake) never seem to leave. It's all he can do to cherish the time given to him, but it seems that time might be coming to an end. Perhaps he could send a letter to Tevinter; he and Dorian could have an impromptu second honeymoon before the Maker (or whomever) yanks him off this mortal coil.He'd just need to get through this Exalted Council, first.
Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Series: Antivan Dalish Walks into a Conclave [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1875757
Comments: 43
Kudos: 44





	1. Waning

**Author's Note:**

> New story new tarot card: https://i.imgur.com/ShbKlyf.png  
> Some additional Trespasser-related art: https://i.imgur.com/RTRbwuz.png AND https://i.imgur.com/T1HaVtB.png

Syrillon slipped the cold bronze button through the odd-shaped button-hole before smoothing the breast of his jacket down with one palm. He straightened his sleeves for a third time and wondered, eyeing his reflection, if there was anything to be done for his dark circles. The scars too, perhaps, but he thought they added a certain edge. Looking like a war-torn mercenary might startle some sense into the council.

The pad of his finger traced one cut along his neck and to his jaw, to where its brothers lay; all of them strange little slices carved into his skin, all provided by a phantom blade. It had been years since he’d used it, but it seemed the Anchor was still intent, even in its slumber, to lay its mark upon his skin. The cuts kissed only so far as the underside of his chin, threatening in their advance. He took his hand away.

The stained-glass windows of the Comte's chambers cast him in greens and yellows, lit by the dying sun. His hair was too styled and his look too maudlin. Stylists had come and gone, doing their best to make him seem as presentable as possible, given what they had. He was slouchier than he had been, two years ago. His hair had grown out enough to be pulled back into something neater than his usual. His skin was more sallow and his eyes duller. They must've spent a fortune on giving him such a lively flush.

He turned in front of the mirror, assessing his clothing. It was the same as his last visit to the Winter Palace. He'd promptly "lost" every invitation he'd been sent in the past two years, and he'd not been tuning into whatever fashion trends had been spreading like plague amongst the close-marrying crowds of Orlais. The outfit was passable for the Empress's masquerade back when the nation was still embroiled in civil war; a military-inspired jacket and trousers wasn't too out of place. He supposed they'd changed the colour to make him seem less pallid again bright, striking red. They'd added a few decorative bits, even. A chain and a little tasseled rope. Epaulets, finally. Was the collar higher than it had been, or had he shrunk?

His eyes wandered, halting, towards the matching cane lain out across the settee. Just how weak had Josephine deemed him? He'd been sequestered to bed a time or two, and sometimes walking took him longer than it should have. But he didn't need a _cane,_ like some sort of elderly fop. Least of all one made of that tight, thin wood. He'd walk without it. He could lean on a person or two, should he need support. He wasn't going to touch the thing.

It was childish, he knew. Both to act such a way and to shy away from being earnest with Josephine about this particular reservation. How long had it been since she'd first suggested it? It must've been some time. How very courageous of him--the gleaming Herald of Andraste--to be afraid of a cane. No--not afraid. Suspicious. Apprehensive. If he looked at it, he'd hear her voice. If he touched it, he'd get a phantom pain. He'd be sitting during the council, wouldn't he?

The Anchor started its throbbing, calling once more for his attention. It was a dull pain. Then, it was as if the tendons of his fingers were being parted; tugged, gently but mercilessly, until he was gritting his teeth to hold back a groan or a shout. The pain faded. The mark at the centre of his palm was like a gouged scar, now. The skin was raised around it and swollen black. The tinctures he’d been using only did so much and he had to save a great portion for the Council to come. At least he’d be wearing gloves.

“Inquisitor!” Josephine called distantly, meeting him at the winding entryway stairs, which he descended in half-steps. She rushed quickly to his side as soon as she spotted him. “Inquisitor, did you not see my gift?” She asked in a harsh murmur, taking his arm to help him descend.

“I did.” Lavellan replied, impassive.

 _“And?”_ She asked.

“I still don’t want it.” A long, heavy sigh from her and she released his arm at the landing. They walked slowly to the door. He felt rather like he was her grandfather. She propped the front door open for him, still ready to support him once more at only a moment’s notice.

“No one will make jokes, you know,” she chided. He only gave a hum in reply. “The procession is waiting for us. Only Cullen will be joining us on the ride into the palace.”

“What, Cassandra’s afraid of being seen with me? _Now?”_ Lavellan chuckled dryly, shuffling his way down the more shallow front porch steps. Josephine outpaced him to help with _that,_ as well.

“She has her own reasons, my Lord.” She replied, “it’s just as well. Her riding alongside us won’t necessarily reflect well. People may still be wary of the Seekers.”

“So be it,” he said, “she’ll miss out on all the fun. I was going to throw coins at the crowd.”

“I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that that would be a very poor thing to do.”

“No. But I could go with a verbal warning.” A sigh. Lavellan caught sight of Cullen in his Inquisition red and he walked a little faster; more like an amble than a jog.

“There he is!” He called out, grabbing the Commander’s attention. “The man of the hour. You’ll sweep a hundred nobles off their feet today, I’m sure.”

“I’d be just as happy if they kept the sweeping to themselves.” Cullen replied, his smile uneasy, “how are you feeling, Inquisitor?”

“Oh, just grand,” Lavellan said, gesturing to the overcast sky. “The sun is shining, Thedas is back to being petty--what’s not to like?” Josephine fell into step at his one side and Cullen at the other, both of them hanging closer than usual. As if they expected something to go wrong.

They climbed into the carriage and Lavellan was greeted by another cane sitting across one seat. He spared it a passing sneer and sat opposite it, on an unusual side. Cullen and Josephine followed, both visibly wilting at his childish avoidance.

“Inquisitor, ser…” Cullen started, trailing off with a sigh, “Lavellan.”

“What?” The elf squawked, crossing one leg over the other in a flippant motion. Josephine sat beside him, hands folded daintily over her lap. The door to the carriage snapped shut and they jerked forward at a trot out of the manor’s front drive.

“My Lord, we only want you to be secure,” Josephine said carefully, taking up the mantle of speaking from Cullen, who looked like he was floundering. “Any embarrassment of using the cane would be quite preferable to you falling at any given point during the talks.”

“Who says I’m going to fall?” Lavellan snapped, folding his arms tightly over his thinned chest, “I feel fine. I’m not using it.”

 _“Lavellan.”_ Cullen stressed, trying to fix him with a stern look.

“No.” Lavellan hissed, “and that’s final. Have someone follow me around if you’d like. Keep a fainting couch nearby, I don’t care. I’m _not_ using it.” The carriage fell stiffly silent inside. Wasn't he trying to be less childish?

“Very well, my Lord,” Josephine folded, offering a gloomy simper, “we will assign a soldier to stay nearby.”

“Good.” He murmured, casting his gaze out the window. The air stayed stiff as the landscape rode past.

-

Their entrance had been made and Syrillon was now bereft of dramatic purpose. He could do with a break, he supposed, or perhaps a place to sit. Evening was already falling and there would be little to do until the following day. Perhaps he’d retire early. He’d wandered his way to one of the overlooking balconies, enjoying the view of the excellent landscaping more so than the loitering politicians and mismatched servants still dotting the dim courtyard. A stroll, maybe? He had always enjoyed nighttime.

The ground was a blend of hard cobble and soft moss underfoot. Cool air of evening pressed in on him as he walked, hands clasped behind his back, nearer the gardens. Fowl called, invisible, from the trees. Springtime was well underway and all the early-blooming flowers now huddled in their planters, closed up for the evening. The bees and the butterflies slept soundly in wherever they made their homes. Cold, dewy air filled his lungs. He was cheerfully at ease, for once. The next morning's events were a looming shadow, but one he could easily forget. Halamshiral, for all its flaws, felt like such a holiday home. Especially when he wasn't the one paying to stay there.

He had been given a set of quarters, evidently. He hadn't seen them yet, but there were whispered rumours of wyvern-down bedding; something especially gaudy for the man on trial, what joy. He was loath to leave the halcyon world of nighttime, however. He found himself a quietly-stirring fountain and sat himself on the edge of it. There was a lantern not far, providing a dim pool of yellow-tinted light under which he could take in the grey and black world. If he leaned far enough to the side, he could see the moon through the budding leaves of the sequestered garden trees. The scars of the civil war were unfelt, now, and that was likely the entire idea. The Empress could cower in her own time, but Orlais was a nation of appearances; so long as the Winter Palace appeared unscathed, there was no room for doubt.

He leaned forward onto his knees and sat there quietly for one long moment. His father would have liked this. He chuckled, barely a sound, to himself. He could recall when he was nearly a pre-teen, laying in bed with eyes closed but mind wandering. A distant shuffling had drawn him from his cot and he'd found his father slipping on his cloak and quiver. When he'd been spotted, Hatharal's eyes had been so... soft. They understood. He'd smiled, waving him closer with one hand and requesting silence with the other. He cast a too-large cloak over Syrillon's shoulders and handed him a hunting knife too broad for his childish fingers. In silence, they crept out into the woods for a night-hunt.

He felt so _old,_ dwelling on his own history. Older still when he found that those half-faded memories brought him comfort. It was a marvel that he could still remember what his father looked like. He wondered, then, if Hatharal would do the same; sitting in the gardens and thinking of his long-gone son. He wondered if Hatharal could see the similarities that were so often pointed out in retrospect. It made Syrillon wonder, truly, just how people saw him. Hatharal was such a peaceful sort; always with soft, caring hands and hardly a quirk of anger or hate to his brow. Syrillon wondered if he had had nightmares, too. Perhaps he'd been haunted--the same as his son--by the woman he slept beside. But then, perhaps not.

Now, between nightmares of Corypheus and the other horrors he'd seen, all long-dead, Syrillon was haunted by those eyes of his. His father, not in blood but in heart, who would take him out to explore the midnight world he knew so well. His father, who would sneak him a plate of food after he was sent away hungry. Who would heal his lashings and ensure him, voice toned low so she wouldn't hear: _it isn't your fault,_ and, _I'm sorry._

Syrillon laughed, even though it ached, because it was his father's kindness that haunted him more than any other pain. Those eyes alight with joy and interest, hungry to explore and see more of this world. He would've loved the Inquisition. He would've loved the warm nights of Antiva; the trembling mirror-image of the world painted by the lights shining on the water. He would've loved Halamshiral. He ached, because he wished he could hate the dreamscape version of his father for all the pain he'd allowed. But he could see himself in those eyes, no matter his anathema, and that ache turned to a desperate need. How he wished they could've spoken one last time.

Syrillon would have to go night-hunting again, sometime. Before the nights grew too cold. Before he...

Well.

Someone cleared their throat and Syrillon, startled from his gloomy reverie, looked up. The aching faded and he was brought back to the present. Josephine was in Inquisition red, though some shawl or blanket was thrown over her shoulders to block out the evening chill. Her smile was apologetic.

“My Lord,” Josephine drawled, "I apologize. You blend in so well out here." He spared a glance towards his midnight-coloured uniform. Even the tassels and chains matched the gold of the fireflies. She approached with tentative steps, her writing pad in one arm. “I was hoping I’d find you. Could I join?” He waved her closer.

“I must confess, I’m worried what the future will hold," she murmured, sitting daintily upon the edge of the babbling fountain. She brought the weight of their appointment with her. "Both Orlais and Ferelden would easily forget our service to them. It’s the former that bothers me moreso; Arl Teagan…” she trailed off, snapping her lips shut upon seeing his eyes politely glazed over. “...no. I intended to give myself a break, I won’t speak of it.”

“If you say so.” Lavellan said, offering a weak shrug. He wasn't especially convinced, by any means.

“To tell you the truth, my Lord, I had wanted to offer you a… special experience.” He let out an amused hum.

“Sounds suspicious. What is it?”

“There is… an event. Truly, it is one of the great stars of Orlesian culture. It would be a shame for you to not partake in _something_ entertaining during our time here. We have worked hard enough. _You_ have worked hard enough.” He let out a long sigh, though the tiny quirk to his lips said he’d already made up his mind. The evening was still young; he could revel in it a while longer.

“Oh, alright,” he drawled. “A night out sounds fantastic.”

-

The event in question was… not entirely what he’d expected. There was more fanfare and pyrotechnics than he might’ve assumed, when first they’d taken their balcony seats for the opera. His arm ached from his near-constant fanning; the venue was too hot for the time of night and he supposed his condition wasn’t helping. Not that Josephine needed to know _that_ bit.

“Oh, bravo!” She called, standing from her seat to give a rousing cheer. Most of the audience did the same, though Lavellan stayed firmly in his seat, damp with cold perspiration and eyes drooping. Josephine’s gleaming smile angled in his direction and he offered a weak one of his own.

“What did you think of the show, my Lord? Did you enjoy it?”

“Symbolism isn’t really my thing,” he said, letting out a chuckle, “but it was entertaining. I’m pleased we could spend some time together.” Her smile was more genuine, then. It was lit up in blues and purples as the encore signal began. His stomach turned with phantom nausea and he took in a soothing breath. The evening to come would be long and loud.


	2. A Familiar Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School...... is killing me..... pls pray 4 me

Syrillon woke to dim sunlight filtering in through the window in his provided suite, head still throbbing from the noise of the night prior. He wrestled out of his covers, all of them dense with old sweat, and he moved to his washbasin. The world spun around him on its own accord. Clumsily, he pulled a stool to sit upon, rather than allowing himself to tumble straight into the shallow water. He scrubbed at his face, willing the sleep from his eyes. There seemed to be new wrinkles each time he looked at his reflection. Perhaps it was only from his pillow.  
  
Their council business would be starting today. He couldn’t help a childish frown.

The grounds were tepid with morning warmth. It was a few hours past dawn, now, and though many of the council-goers were still slumbering away, there was enough rabble to keep Syrillon occupied. He held tight to the neatly-written invitation in his grasp. A warm breeze wandered through the courtyard alongside him. The world seemed to have a blanket of gloom cast over it… something in the air, maybe? Or, perhaps, that was just what Halamshiral felt like in the daylight.

He passed servants, more than any others. Distantly, he could spot Blackwall--Thom--already awake and training with his throwing knives. Lavellan fought to glance away, but it was too late. He sent an awkward wave once he'd been noticed. Uncomfortable tension rolled in his gut. They'd not spoken outside of pleasantry or passing banter for some time, now. It was more on Lavellan's fault than the other man's. Perhaps it was being in company who knew too well what forcibly mistaken identity felt like. It was as if he couldn't hide next to him.

Here Blackwall was, proving himself a truer and more honest man than Lavellan, who had inspired the change in the first place. It was embarrassing. Shameful. Distance helped Lavellan fool himself into thinking this was a backseat worry he could muffle until it died out altogether. Still, Blackwall stayed politely respectful. Admiring, even, though the thought of it roiled that same uncomfortable shame.

The gardens were quaintly abandoned compared to the rest of the grounds. Fewer workers milled about. Lavellan filled his lungs with tepid mid-morning air. The sweet smell of birch and soil was heavier, here. He passed a raised planter and spotted his destination. It was peacefully destitute, save for the two sofas set up opposite one another and the low, broad table between them.

Vivienne cut a striking form on the settee where she sat, legs primly crossed, awaiting her company. Once Lavellan entered her view, she waved a dainty hand to beckon him. She stood as he approached, placing a gentle hand at his shoulder and miming a kiss to both of his cheeks.

“It’s _so_ good to see you, my dear,” she greeted, a polite simper on her lips. The creases to her cheeks seemed deeper when she did. More than he remembered. A servant stood beside the arm of her sofa, holding a jug tight in their grasp as they stared into the middle distance.

“You as well, Madame Vivienne. How have you been?” She made a gesture, as the host, for him to sit. He did so, careful to keep her previous lessons on _courtesy_ and _proper dining habit_ in mind as he did. Don’t cross your leg over the knee, keep your hands in your lap, back straight.

She sat herself down across from him and gestured for their tall glasses to be filled. Some sort of off-yellow bubbly was provided, delicately tinkling inside the thin, crystalline flutes. The servant disappeared, leaving the pair to the privacy of the high-walled planters and the bees traversing the air around them. The trees gave them some meager shade, but not so much to make the sunlight dappled. Another gentle breeze and the sun wavered, undeterred, to catch the rim of his glass for a momentarily blinding show.

“Quite alright, darling. Business continues on, as always.” There was a wide and colourful array set out before them. Pastries covered in powders and cloyingly sweet drizzles; tarts of assorted shape and fruit topping; tiny, delicate sandwiches the size of fingers that seemed to be the same beige colour all the way through. Half of the stuff Lavellan couldn’t recognize as food. It was so artistically made, he almost felt bad for ruining it. Vivienne plucked up a piece of fruit and a small pastry to lay atop her tiny plate. It was one of the sort he'd been tasked with remembering, those many months ago when the Empress's masquerade and Corypheus were the biggest worries in his life. The name escaped him now.

“However, I’m quite a bit more interested to learn how you’ve been faring. How is business at Skyhold? I hear you’ve been keeping busy.”

“We’re helping where we can. Josephine’s been doing a great deal, these days. Though I suppose that’s in keeping with the usual.” Lavellan took what seemed to be the most tame-looking custard tart of the bunch and laid it on his plate. Mild nausea rolled in his stomach at the sight and smell of the food, but he swallowed it down with a sip of his bubbly. It had the faint taste of raspberry--

“Quite,” she drawled, using her tiny fork to spear a piece of sliced strawberry. “She could certainly use a break. Which reminds me,” she then took a dainty drink, leaving an off-red smudge on the rim of the glass. “I have an appointment for the spa here. I set it up ages ago; I’d intended to bring you along, but Josephine tells me you’ve not been feeling well.” In a feeble attempt to discourage such a well-founded rumour, Lavellan took an uneasy bite of the pastry. It was gummy and dry on his tongue and he resisted the urge to finish his drink just to get it down.

“Right.” He murmured, swallowing a turn in his stomach. “People are worrying too much, nothing more.” Her eyes stayed on him, caging him awkwardly into keeping still. Then, after a moment, she continued her light breakfast. She must've been so used to casual, careful meals. Picking and choosing so little of a feast of snacks grand enough for five or more. For a moment, he was reminded of his sister. How un-Orlesian she'd be; taking a full plate of snacks to hand out to everyone she met and packing up the rest for later. He would have to bring something back for her to try.

“Even so, you ought to be careful. You won’t always have someone to tell you to slow down.” He gave a mute nod. Her gaze, though unseen by him, softened. “Go on, dear. I’m sure there are plenty of people vying for your attention. We’ll have the chance to chat some other time.” Syrillon went to disagree, but she was already dismissing him. He gave a mute nod and stood from the sofa. He placed his half-eaten singular pastry on the edge of the table and offered a short bow.

“Thank you, Madame Vivienne. It was good to catch up.”

-

His tea still sat warm in his stomach as he left the café, strolling aimless along the grounds. He kept a keen eye out for many of the odd little dog treats he’d been stumbling across. It was a pleasant--if odd--search which worked well to distract him from all the things he was meant to be doing but hadn't been.

The Chargers had been in good spirits, which was a blessing. It made him feel a bit less like the world was about to crumble; what with that feeling still lingering in the air. Though, he supposed, the Chargers kept up morale even at the worst of times. But Bull hadn’t seen anything. Sera, too, though she did a worse job at keeping up a carefree pretense. She was jittery, and quieter than usual. Perhaps Josephine had had a word with her; told her to keep a smile on and a positive attitude going. It’s what it seemed like, anyway, when Lavellan made his rounds. It was like no-one noticed the foreboding air on purpose.

He found Cassandra and Varric chatting near the centre of the grounds, speaking in hushed tones about what was probably a book, or some other rumour Varric was pulling out of his ass. Regardless, they both looked happy to see Lavellan on his feet come to visit them. Their company proved a charming enough distraction. It had been odd living in Skyhold with a dwindling number of friends. Sera, Bull, Cole and two-thirds of his advisors were all who remained on a regular basis. It was nice to catch up, and to pretend the Inquisition wasn’t wilting.

Cullen--who over the past months had become a greater friend and confidant--had, through some sort of miracle, found a dog to play with. Lavellan unloaded all the treats he’d stumbled across, trying desperately to earn its favour. The commander endeavored to talk business while still giving the mabari belly rubs, so Lavellan settled, crossing his legs, on its other side. He ran his fingers more slowly through its short hair. It was a long, peaceful moment between two men who’d rather spend time with a hound than in the presence of dogs.

“Inquisitor,” came a familiar Orlesian drawl. Leliana, in all her Divine vestment, kept her hands clasped together as she moved--practically floating, given such a long hem--to stand at Lavellan’s back. Her trumpet sleeves could’ve brushed the cobbled ground if she were only a few inches shorter.

“Most Holy.” He greeted, sitting back to angle up at her as impolite a smile as he could muster. “What can I do for you?”

“I’ve just finished greeting the ambassadors. There are a few who you may be interested in speaking with.” A tinier smile crossed his lips.

“You won’t give me a summary?”

“I could. But I am sure our guests would appreciate speaking to you themselves.” There was a curious _something_ to her visage, then. “And I don’t believe I should speak for our Tevinter Ambassador. Doing so when _you’re_ involved could cause quite a scandal.”

“Oh?” Did that mean…?

“He was practically buzzing with excitement when we spoke. He tried to hide it. Really, it was so endearing.” She drawled, showing a glimpse of _Leliana_ for a passing moment. “They should all be at the eastern overlook.” She lingered for a moment, barely letting out a bored sigh before that Divine visage returned. “Is there any business I should be aware of?” Lavellan climbed to his feet, brushing off dirt or bits of peat moss from his trousers.

“Oh, _yes._ Vivienne set up breakfast in the gardens not long ago. It’s so incredibly secluded and peaceful, I’m _certain_ she’s up to something. You ought to investigate, Your Holiness.” Leliana, supplying a tight nod, swept away to take up his offer. Lavellan turned, giving his commander a quick bow.

“Cullen. I trust you and our new friend will stay out of trouble.”

“We’ll certainly endeavor to, Inquisitor.”

-

Syrillon had spotted him quite quickly. It was easy, given that penchant for shiny accessories and the glaring Orlesian sun. Cheekily, Syrillon did his best to look lost as he lingered, loitering, at the top of the steps. He kept his hands clasped behind his back and an aimless affectation about himself as he strolled, his steps slow and kicked-out, in an idle circle. Behind his back, he could hear Dorian’s polite excuse to slip away. Then, footsteps. Thankfully, the Altus had taken his easy bait.

“Amatus,” he called, his voice almost conspiratory in how it stayed hushed. The simper was audible. Syrillon turned, as if he had never spotted him, and a bit of weight was lifted from his shoulders. He smiled earnestly for the first time in what must’ve been too long. A quick peck to one grinning cheek and Syrillon was pulled into a hug. He fought the urge to lean limply into it and simply wilt in the man’s arms.

“It’s good to see you.” The voice was muffled near his ear. He summoned his strength and gave the Altus a tight squeeze. The embrace, he found, was tight and thankful. Perhaps Dorian had worried he’d wasted away to ash in their months apart, and now holding him was his only proof otherwise. His long night spent at the opera started to weigh on him, as if he’d forgotten it until he had someone else to prop him up.

“Quit stealing my lines,” Syrillon replied at a murmur, drawing back a short distance. One of his hands rested, clingy, at Dorian’s upper arm. Then, releasing a long-suffering sigh, he let his head loll to one side. “You look better every time I see you.”

“It’s a bit like that saying, isn’t it? _Hunger is the best sauce?”_

“How provocative,” Syrillon drawled, letting out a soft laugh. In truth, there was a weathered quality to the man now stood before him. His brow creased more, and there seemed to be a silvery shine to his hair. Perhaps it was the naturalness of it that concerned him; a reminder that time continued to pass, even if he couldn’t feel it. But it had only been a few months, hadn’t it? Dorian smiled through the tightness in his expression, as if nothing at all was wrong. Typical. Though, he supposed, he was doing the same.

“You’re looking well.” Dorian said, more tender and more serious, even if it wasn’t true. There was that bittersweet quirk to his smile that Syrillon had learned to recognize. One warm hand cupped his sallow cheek, avoiding the new scars. Worry crossed his gaze, if only for a moment. Hasty, heavy words still hung in the air between them from the last time they’d spoken. _I can’t help but feeling like you’re slipping away from me--_

“Josephine did a great deal, like usual. Hired a whole throng of people to pretty me up.” -- _Like the man I love is being pulled out of my grasp and there’s nothing I can do to stop it._

“Oh, naturally. It’s a shame they did such an excellent job; I’d hate to smudge all their hard work.” Their last night together, though Syrillon hadn’t known, was spent tucked tight in the mage’s arms. The anchor would trigger without his say-so, casting the bedroom in sickly green light. Dorian would plant a little kiss on the crown of his head, wide awake despite the hour and his early-morning carriage ride swift approaching.

It was all either of them could do to play off their worry; perhaps this loss of control _wasn’t_ an omen for something yet unknown. Still, Syrillon’s wasn’t a brand of luck they were optimistic about.

“Awh, pish, I’m the one who paid for it. Smudge all you like.”

“But _what_ would the council say? Surely, the damage would be irreparable. The Inquisitor, showing up to his own hearing, looking absolutely ravaged.”

“Now, who said I was going to be _ravaged?”_ Syrillon heckled, giving him a light shove. “You’re putting words into my mouth, Lord Pavus. Very presumptuous of you.”

“Quite. About that,” Dorian’s smile faltered an inch and Syrillon fought to not mope. He’d not be getting off the hook of his betrothed’s endless worry-train today, apparently. Pity. “How’s the anchor? Has it been hurting? I looked around for information wherever I could but I wasn’t able to find much of use.”

“I’m alright for now, dove,” Syrillon reassured, quiet, giving his arm a squeeze. _For now_ wasn’t a lie, was it? “You aren’t the only one researching it; there’ll be an answer somewhere.”

“Perhaps not the _only_ one,” he murmured, “but the only one qualified.”

“What a snob,” Syrillon teased, forcing a more carefree smile onto his lips. “I’m fine, see? Relax a little. Enjoy the _endless_ amenities of… what is it you are? A diplomatic attaché?”

“Something like that.” Dorian let out a long sigh. Syrillon’s hands slipped to his chest, pressing into the fabric and the leather adornments.

“You’ve been asking all sorts of questions about me. It’s my turn, now.” Syrillon insisted, trying not to frown at how tense the notion made Dorian seem.

“Of course. Ask away, my dear.”

“Did you know you’d be coming here?”

“Not so much in advance, no. If you’re prying for why I never sent a letter, I hadn’t the time. Besides, you like surprises.”

“I _do,_ don’t I?” Syrillon giggled, “alright, you’ll get away with that one. How’s Maevaris? Are you making friends? Fun enemies?”

“Maevaris is fine. I’m becoming _quite_ popular back home, but I’ve not yet seen my efforts bear fruit, one way or another. Not to say that _something_ isn’t happening; I’m sure I’ll come to an end at some point soon. Pulling strings from the shadows, and all that rot.” Syrillon wanted to ask about family, but that was a sorer subject he wasn’t feeling especially keen on. Dorian spotted something over the elf’s shoulder and put on an easy smile.

“Now, I’m loath to leave such pleasant company, but I don’t think the other diplomats will take kindly to a _Tevinter_ soaking up all your precious time. I’ll let you mingle.” Dorian said, sighing, as if it were the most difficult decision he’d ever had to make. There was still something preoccupied about his expression; Syrillon'd have to find time to pry at a later hour. He tugged down the collar of Dorian’s shirt and pressed a kiss to the skin before pulling it back up to cover the soft red tint.

“I’ll see you soon, dove.” He bode, flashing a final smile. Dorian left his grasp and Syrillon watched, a bit wistful, until his next visitor stole away his attention.


	3. The Orchid, Wilted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're ready to Hurt. Next update Oct. 4th

Syrillon escaped Arl Teagan’s clutches within a few short minutes. The sounds of distinct revelry was what drew him towards the baths. The Iron Bull downed a drink--which was clearly not his first of the day, given he was sat upon the ground--while Sera provided a rousing cheer, leaning precariously over the arm of a divan. Blackwall sat at the other side, existing to provide a counter-balance.

Cassandra was the first to notice the Inquisitor’s approach. She offered a tight-lipped smile, still standing tensely at the arm of that same sofa. Varric interrupted, however, with his half-empty glass of wine raised.

“Fine, then. _I’ll_ make the toast.”

“Oh, no, please. Certainly _I_ could come up with something perfectly eloquent to say on my own behalf.” Dorian replied, clutching his own glass. He was parked near one of the high-walled planters, shrouded by foliage. He hadn't yet noticed Lavellan's presence. Varric cleared his throat to cut him off.

 _“Sparkler,_ as the most _eloquent_ dwarf you know,” The Iron Bull passed out along the ground with a thump. The party barely spared a glance. Lavellan, quietly interested, came to half-sit on the arm of the emptier parallel couch. “The Imperium doesn’t deserve you, and it doesn’t want you. It… may even kill you. It’ll try, at least, anyway.”

“What a clever speech. Truly, _Viscount_ Tethras, you’re in a league of your own.” Lavellan chimed, arms loosely folded. Varric gave a silent nod and another bump of his glass in wry thanks. In his periphery, Dorian physically panicked; looking between said elf and Varric, who was intent on finishing his speech. Any awkward protest was quickly lost.

“But _we’ll_ miss you, if it counts.” Dorian’s grip on his glass grew tight enough to be almost near the point of crushing it. Varric looked between the mage’s stiff glare and the Inquisitor, whose brows were pulled tight in question. “...and you didn’t know. Great.” Sensing the air, Varric put on an awkward grin. “We’ll… leave you to sort this out.” He volunteered, gesturing for the others to shoo along with him. They left the Bull on the ground where he lay, already slumbering away his stupor.

Now more or less alone, Syrillon stayed where he was, expectant. Dorian, however, wandered a few steps away, meekly escaping the conversation. Silence passed between them. Then, stiffly, Dorian turned on his heel to face him. He gripped his glass with nailbeds pressed white and brow drawn in together, painting a picture of quiet despair.

“It’s… true.” He confessed, almost gasping before he went to explain. Syrillon stayed watching him, allowing him all the time and words he needed. “I need to go back to Tevinter. For good, this time.” Syrillon’s nod was small.

So, this 'surprise meeting' was a bit more like a final chance at goodbye. Better than nothing, he supposed, but a little, bitter part of himself wished they could've skipped the heartbreak. Had Dorian simply stayed in Tevinter longer than expected, that was it. There was no hurt to cover up or feelings to keep in mind. He didn't need to play the respectful, mature lover when he moped in the solitary peace of his own chambers. Alone.

“Alright.” He said, speaking at a murmur. It hurt, but it was nothing new. This was the nature of things, wasn't it? To change? He could wail and whine if he had the energy, but it wouldn't make any sort of difference.

Dully, he wondered what the Maker had against him; taking everything he grew to know as _home_ and slowly peeling his fingers from it until it was nothing but an intangible memory. Perhaps that was just a part of growing old; he'd been doing that a great deal, these days.

“I wouldn't do it if it wasn't necessary, amatus, you know that.” Syrillon stayed where he was, sitting more fully on the armrest. He hadn't the energy to stand or to make a scene. He likely just looked stubborn. Dorian, bridging the gap between them, herded himself back in. Absently, he fiddled with his hands.

"What's changed?" Syrillon asked, fighting to sound impartial. Like this wasn't the thing he'd been dreading since the first time Dorian had left for Tevinter, all that time ago; that, despite his best efforts in trying to stay firmly where he was--in a place of comfort, surrounded by those he came to trust--the world would move around him on his own accord. He would be left stranded once more to get by on scraps. Something grim and solemn crossed Dorian's expression, haphazardly covered by his carefree mask, and Syrillon dropped his worries as soon as he spotted it.

"My father is dead. Assassinated, I believe," he spoke in a lower tone, "I only found out this morning. A letter, congratulating me on inheriting his seat in the Magisterium." There it was. Syrillon leaned forward to take one of his hands between his own, nodding mutely. How he wished he could do... something. Anything. Incredible, how he seemed to have moved mountains out of need, but as soon as _want_ was on the table, he was suddenly powerless. At the very least, he longed to steal away with him; to take Dorian with him to his quarters, hold him tight, play the bulwark once more. Keep all the ugly in the world away for a few peaceful hours and allow him some rest. The slightest twitch of despair ruined the mage's brow and it made his heart break just a bit more.

How _Tevinter_ of him, to dress up and put on a smile even at the worst of times. Perhaps that was the thing he'd seen earlier; the haggard energy to him, seeping out wherever he'd started to rip at the seams. "I... hadn't realized he'd kept me as his heir." Eyes on their hands, Dorian's voice lowered to a whisper. "I _have_ to go back."

A sickly feeling of dread rolled in his gut. He could recall snippets of when his brother came to tell him of their clan's fate. He'd blacked parts of it out from the stress and the shock, but that hurt he could remember well. A tingling numbness reaching to his fingers and a weight--like a lead ball--hanging in his gut. It was absolute despair, and it had hung onto him for weeks and months. To have received the news that _morning?_

"Do it." He replied, matching his whisper. If he was to be solitary, he would do it of his own will. He would do it knowing it was the right choice. "Don't push yourself to comfort me. Do what you must. I'll support you wholeheartedly; you know I will."

"Careful," Dorian chided weakly, his smile wavering even before it crossed his lips, "any more supportive and I'll have to assume you're trying to get rid of me." Syrillon spared a laugh for him, if only to put him at ease.

"And give the gossips good material? Never."

"Well, just to make sure," Dorian slipped his hand into his pocket. Wrestling for a moment, he held out a small satchel. It was a dark, smooth cloth. Whatever was inside, it seemed to hum as soon as Syrillon's tentative fingers touched it. "A going-away present." The elf peeked inside, spotting a dull blue glow and little more.

"It's...?"

"It's a sending crystal," the mage supplied, a bit more genuine joy to his voice with the fact, "extraordinarily expensive, so don't go loaning it out. If ever you find yourself in need of a blind compliment, my soothing voice, or perhaps a word of advice?" He made an open-handed gesture towards the gift, "well, I'm always eager to be of service."

"Novel," Syrillon chimed weakly, studying the bag, "now there's no risk of my awful, lewd jokes being read out among kitchen staff. How many times, now?"

"Only twice; I started to use your letters as bookmarks. That seemed to put them off the scent."

"Well, perhaps I'll send a few more. Can't let the staff get bored."

"Naturally." Dorian stepped in, winding his arms around Syrillon's neck in a tight embrace. The elf wrapped his arms around his midsection in return, face pressed against cloth and stiff leather. A hand smoothed over the crown of his head, followed by what must've been a pecked kiss. Dorian drew away to hold Syrillon's cheeks between his hands. "You're the man I love, amatus," he murmured, "nothing will keep me from you. Not for long, anyway."

"Insufferably romantic," Syrillon ribbed, "as well as a bit threatening. Just the way I like you," fingers tangling in the cloth at the mage's midsection, he angled a weak smile up at him. "Come, let's do something fun. I'd like to hear your laugh at _least_ one more time before you go."

-

The council was underway within a matter of minutes. Josephine gave their opening statement and Lavellan sat, mute, beside her. It felt rather like he was being scolded; stewing under the gaze of the council. Even if Leliana was amongst them; hardly the one to be chiding him on whatever Orlais and Ferelden wanted to condemn his organization for.

He stared into the woodgrain of the table in front of him, his stomach turning restlessly. His eyes glazed over with something near sleep, though he was aware enough of the voices around him to tell who was speaking at a given time. Not that he was paying a great deal of attention. He supposed he should, given the setting, but it was a greater feat to drag himself from his exhausted fugue than he’d expected.

One minute turned to ten minutes, all crawling by. He started to bounce his knee under the table, searching for the satiety of distraction. He needed something-- _anything--_ to keep him occupied.

Slowly, with his idle task of listening to the diplomats and their posturing speeches, the anchor started to act up. At first, it was just a slight throbbing in his palm. Nothing he couldn’t handle. But without a distraction, he couldn’t help but sit and wait as that pain spread up along his forearm and into the elbow. A cool shudder ran along his spine. Then, another. It was a wicked chill, followed by a shocking wave of heat. His palms grew clammy with sweat beneath his gloves. His breaths, more shallow, were growing harder to disguise. In his feverish lapse, he hoped his perspiration wasn’t especially noticeable.

Had he eaten at all? There was breakfast in the garden, then... he ate at the café, didn't he? A sharp pain thudded in one temple and, upon his blink, he found his left eye stinging. Had he drank enough?

How long did he have to sit here?

Spots of darkness and inverse colour flashed in and out of his sight. He wavered, barely, and one of his hands came to grip the underside of the table for a bit of stability. Josephine spoke, now, but he was too embroiled in feverish shudders to concentrate on the content of her speech. He swallowed, his mouth dry and full of cotton.

A voice beside his ear made him startle.

“Your Worship,” an Inquisition scout addressed, her voice low, “there’s an urgent situation needing your attention. The Divine has asked to speak with you outside.” Lavellan glanced towards where Leliana sat, dividing Ferelden and Orlais at the head table. She offered a barely perceptible nod.

“Right.” He murmured, attempting to blink away his sickly inattention. One weak hand on Josephine’s arm, he leaned nearer her ear. “Something’s come up. I’m sorry.” She barely spared him a wide-eyed look of concern before he’d placed his hand atop the table and pushed out his seat with wobbly legs.

“Apologies,” he said in the ensuing pause, “an urgent matter has come up. I need’t step out. I’ll make haste if possible.” Perhaps his words were a tad slurred. The anchor pulled, then, and it seemed to tug the tendons of his fingers away from one another. Biting down a grunt on the inside of his cheek, he offered a clumsy bow and strode out, Arl Teagan’s voice following him as he did.

Fresh air seemed to soothe his stomach and his feverish sweat, but he wasn't _better_ by a long stretch. He watched the blonde head in front of him as the scout led him across the grounds. Even with the council in session, servants and other visitors lingered outside. Bored of the council, or organizing something else. He brushed past, keeping his eyes down as murmurs followed. He had to shake his head to assuage the encroaching voices. They all sounded like gibberish.

They reached the cluster of tall rammed-earth buildings. Warily, he rubbed his marked palm in a lame attempt at assuaging the discomfort. His sickness seemed to subside, but the dread of _occupation_ took its place. He turned a corner to find Leliana; her grim-but-optimistic look wasn’t a good sign.

“I thought perhaps you would be the best person to warn,” she informed, stepping aside to reveal a corpse lamely propped up inside the small plaster-walled building. Lavellan looked between the sallow body of the qunari warrior and the Divine standing pleasant and halcyon to his left.

“Well,” he sighed, “shit.”

“Quite.” She agreed. Lavellan stepped forward and crouched down, carefully assessing the body without stirring it too much. “He is one of the Antaam. Dressed for _war.”_ The way she said it was curious and puzzled. “I have no doubt something is afoot. If you could…?” The implication was clear enough. _Look into it?_ Or, perhaps, _clean this up?_ Lavellan let out a weak sigh. Someday, he’d start saying no.

“Fine.” He agreed, brushing off his knees once he’d stood.

“There appears to be a blood trail.” Leliana provided, bothering to look at least an ounce apologetic. “Thank you, Inquisitor. I have alerted our soldiers. Would you like your circle to be notified of the danger?”

“Yes, please,” he replied, stepping out onto the mossy, cobbled walkway. True to her word, there were a few artful splatters of red left along the ground in a meandering direction. “Ready them for battle. I'm afraid things are going to be quite a bit more exciting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No idea how frequent updates will be. Hopefully, they can stay within the 1-2 per week range. 2 will probably be rare.


	4. Familiarity, Shrouded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's October 3rd.... I am a liar

The Well, though it had often kept silent during those past two years, grew to clamoring murmurs as soon as the door to the storage room opened. Like a swarm of flies, the light and song of an eluvian came rushing to meet him. He approached, tentative, and the Well grew louder. Sparing a glance back to where he'd come--the half-open window he'd scaled up to, barely visible in the unlit hallway--he swallowed the rolling sense of dread hanging in his stomach.

He looked back to the doorway. Then, he stepped with closed eyes through its bluish, shimmering surface. With sight regained, he was left to take in the stunning colours of the crossroads. Pink-coloured budded leaves dotted the sparse, stubbornly-clinging trees whose roots grasped the rocky ground. The distant sky was a patchwork of stained glass. All aside from these and the faint blue glow of another eluvian, the world was the same dismal shade of brownish-grey.

Thank the Maker he’d had the foresight to change into armor before traipsing into the Crossroads. The air was crisp and cold despite no sign of winter--or seasons altogether--and it crept its way even beneath his jerkin and soaked into his tunic. Carefully, he followed the still-wet blood trail over uneven, half-cut rock until he approached the distant glowing doorway. He lingered, uneasy, beside it. He unsheathed his blade for insurance and stood aside, waiting for… something.

In the interim, his every breath struck his lungs as a cold gasp. His nose burned from the chill, though he found his earlier aches and nausea fading. Still, the worry of _what was to come_ crouched in his gut and threatened his throat with excited bile, in a confused sort of way. There might've been a smell or a taste, somewhere in the air, of a fruit he couldn't quite remember. It came and went, toying with his mind and escaping before he could ever get a grasp on it.

The _something_ came, after a long moment, in the form of a distant sound. More players entered the stage, emerging from the same eluvian some fifty paces away. Friendly, familiar shapes stepped out, caught in gleaming glimpses of too-bright light from a sun that hid itself somewhere behind the coloured sky. Gawking was in their shared posture as they idled, taking in the new, odd world around them. One of them spotted their idling Inquisitor and, in a cluster, they rushed carefully to his side, as if he'd fallen.

“So, anyone make any bets?” Varric asked, even before he was fully within earshot. A weak sigh chased the words, pausing on the tip of his tongue. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the Inquisition’s cursed.”

“Perhaps. Considering the nature of this recess, I am hesitant to call it a _blessing,_ but…” Cassandra chimed, flush slowly fading from her pale cheeks. They must’ve rushed to the eluvian in an attempt to catch their Inquisitor before he fell into another calamity.

“I see they just picked my most bored-looking friends.” Lavellan ribbed weakly, picking himself up to face their next task. The bluish sheet of glass seemed to hum, long and low, in an old song.

“Well, naturally,” Dorian chimed, shuffling to be a needy step closer, like some sort of insurance, “it would be _so_ cruel to drag anyone away from their drinking and gossiping long enough to keep the Winter Palace from being destroyed. As that is, presumably, what’s happening.” One foot, then the other, and now Lavellan led them through the delicate sheen. The world on the other side had a sun hanging from a different place; Lavellan kept his free hand up to help curb some of his necessary squinting.

“Suppose you’re right,” he replied, “qunari and all. Think there’ll be any pyrotechnics? Dreadnoughts, and that sort?” The aeons-old palace lain out ahead stood imposing and deserted-looking; looming only in height, rather than in mood. Mossy stone and gold tile cut smooth, pointed shapes; unmistakably elven and moderately familiar, though none of them had ever seen such a place fully intact. It was a marvel to think it existed, seemingly untouched by man. That was aside from the distant smell of smoke and sound of battle.

The sky was a soft blue, while the land surrounding them was a jarringly _green_ sea of plants. They seemed to stretch out for miles. Not a single other structure touched the formless surroundings, even into the horizon, where both land and sky blended together in a blue-green haze. Upon closer inspection, sparse groves of trees blended into the greenish ocean, barely like fleas upon the sprawling canvas.

“I’m not taking a bet against it.” Varric replied, also squinting in the brighter light. They followed the more well-constructed, well-paved path--it was a tiled platform where they stood, now--to a set of stairs. It was the only path, but still it ended. All the excitement and rousing activity of battle sat out of arms' reach, across where the pathway broke into a ten-foot gap.

“Is that…?” Dorian started, trying to make out the plants from afar; some twenty feet up and away. He cut himself off with a sneeze into the crook of his elbow. Lavellan, inspecting a small pedestal at the end of the path, replied with a quiet blessing on his behalf.

Before this abrupt end in the tile, the pathway branched off, deceptively, into two balconies. An eluvian lay propped up against the banister at each of these. One was, of course, shattered into shards of gold; unusable. The other, however, sat dully glowing. Awaiting. Knowing, somehow, that this was the only way forward.

Along their path was a second body. Then a third. A few seemed to be victims of a powerful mage, though others--like their friend come wandering to die in one of the Palace’s rammed-earth buildings--fell to physical trauma. Deep, gouging slashes or bones crushed so fully that limbs lay entirely black from bruising and at odd angles. Still, there was no sign of the living insofar as their exploring went.

 _“Sparkler,”_ Varric addressed, “do you need a handkerchief?” They passed through another one of the eluvians dotting the meandering, maze-like path. Dorian sneezed again, up to a count of something near ten.

“No.” Dorian replied, sniffling, “I’m fine.”

“Perhaps you’re allergic,” Cassandra suggested, “you seem to already be familiar with this… what is it? Stripweed?”

“I’m not allergic.” The mage dismissed, already being offered another handkerchief from their Herald. This time, begrudgingly, he took it. Their conversation cut abruptly short when they scaled a set of tiled stairs to come upon a small, assembled company lying in wait. They were spirits; translucent and dully glowing, standing guard for no-one and nothing. The party froze.

Mouthless, the spirit at their head--one with an enormous warhammer; the sort that might’ve been able to crush whole limbs--called out to the Inquisition and its Herald. Its disembodied voice put to use smooth, lingering words of ancient elven. Lavellan could make out only a few. The request seemed to be for a password. The Well, called to life, whispered into his ear.

 _Greet them,_ it instructed.

Lavellan opened his lips to speak, but it was the Well forming his words. He gave a nonsense greeting and braced himself. The see-through sentinel considered his reply. Then, wordlessly, it stepped aside. Uneasy eyes followed the guardian spirits standing prostrate in place until they party turned a corner and they were hidden from view.

-

It was surprising, at first, how the unlocking of new doors was so… personal. They called out to the Anchor, drawing it back to wakefulness, and with a gentle wave of his hand, the aeons-old runes would glow to life. As if they'd laid in wait for all this time... for _him._ It seemed too little like coincidence; though still it felt curiously accidental. With each door opened, he uncovered another piece of the odd, misshapen puzzle they’d stumbled upon. If these doors had not been built to be unlocked by him--by someone else with the power of the Anchor; an elf, possessing an elven orb and putting it to use in an elven ruin--they would surely already be familiar with these sights and sounds he was privy to. So… who was this place meant for?

Slim though it was, there remained a chance that the answer was _him,_ and that worried him more than the truths they unveiled. Barely.

It was starting to grow difficult to keep hold of everything he saw. He would say it aloud when the words found him: Fen’harel, as a man rather than a god, who would free the slaves of the evanuris. The evanuris: mage-leaders, their hubris and arrogance leading to what would be their downfall, like usual. The stories were ancient. They pre-dated the Dalish, to be sure, and there was no telling just how true they were. Truer than the stories Lavellan had grown up with, anyway; untainted by time and haphazard re-telling.

With every new ounce of information, another layer of the culture he thought he knew was peeled away and discarded. He fought to keep placid in the face of it all, even as his heart cried out with words he couldn't put a voice to. Unease roiled in his gut. Just how much of his home had been lies? These truths warred in his mind on repeat, drawing up his mind in a flurry and starting an ache behind his eyes.

The farther they drew within the temple, the darker it became. Their wry banter quieted, steadily, as Lavellan grew more hasty in leaving the odd, uncomfortable place. Varric had to walk at the back for fear of someone tripping over him. That didn’t stop Lavellan stumbling every other step when the ground became uneven with rubble. Cassandra kept close to his side, tugging him back on-balance whenever he tripped himself up. Together, the party pretended as if it wasn’t entirely unusual of him; to save face, perhaps. Or because Lavellan wouldn’t provide an answer either way.

They came upon the end of their path and to a small pedestal, upon which a piece of their maze-puzzle lay. Lavellan approached with tentative steps. It would likely unlock something-or-other, and then they’d be on their merry way into more of the same-looking elven ruins and uncomfortable truths. He couldn’t exactly bring himself to be excited.

Once he drew close enough, however, a greenish _zap_ of energy arced from a nearby structure--one of those sort he’d seen in the Crossroads and otherwise; a flowering imago--and into his hand. The Anchor responded like a bark or a bite. A phantom jaw clamped on the side of his hand and he might’ve expected it to have left a mark if he didn’t see it with his own eyes. Startled by the sudden pain, he let out a hiss and a quiet _"_ _son of a bitch,"_ more quickly than he might’ve liked. He massaged the sting away, quick to play it off.

“You alright?” Varric asked, expectant.

“Fine, now.” Lavellan replied. Whatever had happened, it had stopped the anchor from aching quite so much. Still, that odd feeling lingered like a numbness when he flexed his fingers.

The road ahead had less eluvians and a great deal more qunari, in comparison. Murals--millennia old but unfaded--splayed across the walls of their path; stunning lashes of blues and yellows, accompanied by written stories to confirm the accounts they’d seen prior: the evanuris were not gods. Vallaslin were the markings of slaves. It was unnervingly casual how they came across these things which changed Lavellan’s outlook so entirely. It wasn’t exactly what he’d anticipated when he set out to look into the _qunari_ threat.

 _It’s fine,_ he reassured himself, even if it was hollow. _I never liked all those stories anyway._ Tight sorrow still tugged in his chest, like tears wanting to be shed but he was too tired and too empty to let them free. His home was gone, regardless of the relative truth of their history. His vallaslin were like a sunburn on his face; a haphazard covering-up. Just a memory of another life he’d abandoned and then the one which had replaced it. Now, they both faded, the same as the rest of his dwindling heritage. He’d shed it willingly, hadn’t he? To chase something new? So why did it still hurt?

Perhaps it was that part of himself, deep down inside, which still held an ounce of childishness. Nights spent gazing up at the sky and begging to see the touch of the gods written across the stars, not knowing they were already long-dead pretenders. He could still tell word for word the stories of Emerald Knights and of Andruil and her siblings. He could still remember when first he’d heard them, wide-eyed with wonder, hoping to one day meet his Creators as one such glorious hunter. He had never concerned himself with the specifics; when he was carefree and young and _death_ was an abstract idea; forever within his grasp but firmly outside the realm of concern. He had brushed off what came next: perhaps he would see the Maker, or else the Creators. Or perhaps he would lay in the ground, uncaring, and rot. It had never bothered him before, to think of his natural end. But now?

It was odd, to feel like there was so much less _magic_ in the world, when such a construct was a very real, very possible thing which he himself could accomplish; a flame in his palm, just as quick as a snap of his fingers. It was that simple, soft magic he had no control over; that which was now a hollow emptiness in the wake of these unfortunate truths.

Would the sunrise feel the same? Coppers and golds against a growing expanse of sea-foam clouds, no doubt beautiful, but... would it seem like such a work of art when he compared it to _back then?_ When he saw the world in shades of yellows and orange; all a daze of warmth and carefree youth? When, despite his distance from those stories and those gods--both emotional and physical--he still would gaze up at the sky when he felt alone, knowing there was some semblance of company there? Some form of home? If felt, then, like someone was always looking down on him. The sky felt deliriously lonely, now, in comparison.

Notes of qunari invasion were, thankfully, left behind in the weapon stores they’d uncovered. Lavellan kept quiet, the note clutched tight in his fist. The party filled the silence with casual, quiet banter; careful to not irritate their slowly-crumbling Inquisitor. There had been occasional questions when, tentatively, he did his best to explain each new crushing detail in the best context he could manage. _Are you alright?_ And, _do you need to stop?_

It was an unkind punishment; to use those teachings he’d received from such staunch believers to deliver the truth of their ignorance. Elvish had been a gift which had shaped his life: concepts and images painted by poetic, flowing words and abstract ideas. The outline of heroism; or the odd, personal origins of everything which surrounded them. The birth of the trees and shrubs, or the elvhen--like him, but not--who shaped the rivers and the skies and the rolling hills.

They would be returning to the Winter Palace now, which seemed a duller world. Still, his mind lingered on those far-away murals and those tales, more felt than seen. Could he tell his siblings? He nearly laughed; it was a thought too cruel to consider. Even then, it was hardly his place. He was Antivan now, wasn’t he? Or, at least, more like shem than elvhen. No vallaslin, no barefoot running through the wilds, no praying to the Creators despite the silence. It shouldn’t have mattered.

It _shouldn’t_ have.

-

His advisors clustered around the table, their usual map and miniatures lain out despite their uselessness. There would be no scouting, nor requisitions; no camps to establish or rifts to seal. Only him and his limited allies, already well past their time to help save the world. Lavellan stood across from them, arms folded over his chest, and laid in wait as they spoke uneasily amongst themselves. Qunari? In the Winter Palace? Josephine pored over the notes he’d brought back, brow knit tight.

“Should the council be informed?” She asked, speaking low, as if the walls would hear and scurry off to spill their secrets. Cullen let out a scoff.

“I have no doubt they would attempt to help. It would only complicate matters.”

“Perhaps that is the case, but this is _not_ Skyhold,” Josephine reminded, clutching her writing pad with a white-knuckled grip. “We cannot simply make decisions for everyone; that is not our place.”

“Regardless,” Lavellan tuned in, “I agree. If we can keep the details to a minimum, it may be for the best. Maker knows they’d posture long enough for the qunari to sneak in more soldiers.”

“Very well.” Leliana, hands clasped politely in front of herself, looked between them. “As Divine, I order you to keep this quiet for now.” Josephine let out a tight sigh; the beginning of an argument. “Do not misunderstand; I simply agree that this is the wisest course of action for the time being. Nothing against you, Josie.”

“Of course, Most Holy,” Josephine muttered, writing a small shorthand note on her parchment pad. “Let us hope this can be resolved swiftly. With luck, the decision will not turn over on us.”

 _“Josephine,”_ Lavellan chided. In her place, Cullen, begrudging, knocked a fist lightly on the wood table between them. Lavellan gave a thankful nod. “Careful what you say. Wouldn’t want to jinx it.”


	5. Facing Backwards, Looking Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't actually gonna be a chapter but I thought the flow of the story needed this.... enjoy!!

Young moonlight shone through the shifting silken drapes which covered the windows in Syrillon’s borrowed room. It laid empty and silent and cool, now bereft of the apprehensive springtime sun. Back propped up against too-soft feather pillows, he cradled his marked hand in his other, bare except for a pair of smallclothes. Feverish heat still splayed across his chest and shoulders, even in the growing evening chill. His thumb pressed, firm, into the raised flesh at the centre of his palm. Still, he continued to talk himself into silence.

What would be the point of telling? The Council would see it as a weak side-step--an act of avoidance--attempting to dodge the attempts at whittling down the Inquisition’s influence. Could they wrench everything from the grasp of a withered, weakening man? _Would_ they?

With no small measure of despair, he found himself thinking that such a ruse would be an excellent way to weasel his way out of the thing. Evidently, Orlais and the Game had left its mark on his mind. Or, perhaps, that was Leliana.

A pair of those eyes looked down on him in bed. A tall tapestry nailed into the wall, uncreased and dull in the lacking light. They weren’t Leliana’s eyes--they were _Divine Victoria,_ politely nondescript in her usual flowing vestment, standing halcyon with hands clasped together and the sun at her back. How far in advance had they commissioned these? Did they hang in every room, or just the ones storing visitors with heavy consciences? He averted his eyes from her thousand-stitch silhouette, forfeiting their staring contest.

His back ached with his position, but there was little more to be done. If he lay on his back, the world would start to spin and spin until he either rolled himself off the bed or grew nauseous from the imaginary whirlwind. The blankets lay bundled, scrunched awkwardly, around his feet where he’d kicked them away. A cold shiver ran over his skin and he debated pulling them back in again.

Sleep hung behind his eyes and stewed his brain in the beginnings of a headache. Still, it refused to meet him. It was something in the air, it seemed. Each time he would start to drift off, it was a phantom feeling in the Anchor or a whisper outside the window or another sharp shiver down his spine. Perhaps he was simply losing his mind.

His feet met the cold ground and his head spun threateningly. With luck, the Iron Bull, or Krem--fuck, _anyone--_ would still be awake. He needed someone to keep his mind off the looming sense of _penultimate--_

Perhaps a loose shirt was a bit too lax, given… everything. The time of night, the season, the man wearing it--an elf, a visitor, a man on trial--or any number of Orlesian fashion sins he was probably committing. His skin still burned hot and he wouldn’t bring himself to care. He was already halfway down the stairs to the vestibule when he realized he’d forgotten any gloves. Wincingly, he stuffed his marked hand in his pocket and decided, blearily, that it would do.

It seemed the servants never slept. He was sure to give them polite nods and smiles when he passed through a door held by them, or stood aside to let them pass as they carried whatever it was someone had ordered at the odd time of night. He couldn’t help an awkward itch whenever they’d smile back and pass him by. Did they dislike him? Did they see him as their fellow, despite his position? Or was he lambasted and criticized in low, jeering voices; the same as every other visitor to the Winter Palace?

He wanted to cry out to them: _I’m one of you!_ Or, _I didn’t choose this!_ Though still he doubted it would make a difference. He, like so many other elves living in the world of man, was a product of circumstance. His intentions meant little if they held no influence over the ministrations of fate.

The bar was emptier than he might’ve expected, given the night was still young. A breath--or gasp--of relief shook his lungs when he spotted a familiar image, despite the change in scenery: five or more of his friends all huddled together at a table, drinks in hand and weary grins on their faces. Loose cards and coin littered the rickety tabletop, which shook weakly when the Iron Bull accidentally bumped its leg with the tip of his enormous boot.

It was almost like a dream.

They spotted their Inquisitor and called out in a chorus, as they would have in a more familiar circumstance. At once, his sickness seemed to fade; two years' weight lifted itself, unabashed, from his shoulders. He could nearly feel the warmth and welcome of Skyhold, and of the Herald’s Rest. Varric’s grin could’ve split his face. He waved, bright-eyed, for Syrillon to join their rabble.

The legs of the chair scraped noisily along the grubby floor. It joined the chaos and clamour of the limited group and he couldn’t help his own smile. It felt like home, sitting alongside his friends. Cassandra made room for him, eyes heavy and dark with sleep. There was an exhaustion hanging over them--a worry of something bigger, being covered by drink and careless banter--and that, too, was familiar.

It felt like home, to be in trouble again. Syrillon wouldn’t have put that name to it, before. But now, having returned to it after such a long time away, he could say it with full confidence. The Inquisition had assembled back around him, and he felt at ease for what might’ve been the first time in months.

“Making any bets tonight, Boots?” Varric asked, following a chorus of lazy laughter.

“Haven’t got a single coin on me.” Syrillon replied, an ever-present ghost of a smile across his lips.

“Isn’t that what marriage is for?” The dwarf ribbed back, “what’s mine is yours, vise versa, yadda-yadda?”

“Right, how could I forget? Excuse me while I go rob my partner blind.”

“No, no, don’t get up. I’ve still got a ring from a couple games back.” Varric reached into the inside of his jacket to draw out a familiar piece of silver jewelry. He paused just before handing it off. “Don’t go telling Sparkler I’m making this deal with you, alright? I know for a _fact_ he’d make me regret it.”

“Sounds like him.” Syrillon agreed. The ring landed with a cool, mute thump in his palm. Cards were doled out and he took up his own, one leg kicked over the other. Krem bumped his arm to hand him a drink and gave him a passing jab while he was at it. Syrillon took a pull of his honeyed ale, shaking his head at the lighthearted comradery.

-

The climb back to his room was more exhausting the second time round. Each footfall was heavier than the last, making him regret his denial of Cassandra’s offer to walk him back. The laughter and the warm, fuzzy feeling of _belonging_ stayed in his chest even as the air grew stiffer with cold. He turned the handle of his room, mutely startled to find a light on inside.

Dorian sat bundled up in his bed, making him second-guess whether he was in the right place or not. Still, he offered a smile and set down his small bag of winnings on the barren dresser near the window. The mage watched him from where he perched, illuminated only by the candle he’d lit at the bedside. Quietly, he shifted his book closed in his lap.

The slight crease in his brow was lit in golds, along with his absentmindedly frowny twinge. The elf, tugged closer by the need to wipe such an expression clean off his face, slipped quickly back out of his clothes so he needn't delay.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Syrillon asked, brow pulled into a tiny furrow. Dorian gave a quiet hum of agreement, hand stilled neatly over the cover of his reading. Tired eyes watched Syrillon pull back the covers to shuffle into the bed beside him. Meager pity painted the elf’s expression and he swiped the pad of his thumb--barely touching--at the man’s cheek. His palm came to cup it more fully and Dorian leaned into the touch.

“I’ve missed you.” He said, barely a whisper. His eyes were dull, and they found the middle-distance somewhere at Syrillon’s shoulder. “I wanted to write more, but…” Dorian trailed off, eyes falling to his hands, and where one of Syrillon’s intertwined their fingers. “...Some things are easier to say aloud.”

“Like?” Syrillon asked, pushing gently. Dorian’s head fell, his temple pressed to the elf’s shoulder. A hand smoothed over his unstyled hair, messing it even more.

“Is that my ring?” Dorian asked instead, a tired laugh to his tone. He toyed with Syrillon’s fingers, and with the familiar piece on his index finger. Syrillon drew back, letting out a quiet giggle, and slipped it off. Ceremoniously, he took one of Dorian’s hands and slid the ring back onto one of his fingers.

“I was told to keep you uninformed,” Syrillon said, by way of explanation, “so consider it a gift. I ought to make up for all the ones you shower me with whenever you’ve the chance.” Dorian let out a blasé hum in reply, as if he had _no_ idea what he referred to. As if he wasn’t one-sidedly acting out some sort of repayment for something only _he_ thought he ought to make up for. The room stilled as Dorian left the subject where it lay. He was silent for another beat. Then:

“I wish… ” Dorian murmured, his voice wrenched with grief and conflict, once more hiding his face in the solace of his lover’s collarbone. “...I wish we had more time.” It was nearly a weak laugh. Those words held the weight of what must've been months worth of turmoil. Wishing, wanting, but unable to act for the sake of responsibility or the illusion of pride.

It had been years, but still Dorian found ways to hold back. Stubbornly, Syrillon worked to wrestle those worries he kept bundled up inside. He wrapped his arms tight around him and gave a squeeze. Dread crept in once more, now that the awful feeling hanging overhead had finally been addressed. It became real once they stopped side-stepping the issue.

“That would make it all easier, wouldn’t it?” Syrillon murmured, rocking gently, “you could run off, become a hero, save the world. Then we could retire together. Move into a little hamlet and drink all day.”

“Don’t taunt me,” Dorian muttered, too weak to put any humour into it. Syrillon drew back, pecking a kiss to the corner of his lips. Both his hands came to cup his cheeks, one more shyly than the other.

“What’s the harm?” He asked quietly, stealing another fleeting kiss. “Really, what?” Dorian sank an inch, bogged down by unvoiced worry. Syrillon’s eyes flickered back and forth across his face, taking in his look of quiet despair. “I’ve seen my fair share of tragedy, my love, and that’s not what this is. What we are.”

“No?”

“Tragedy leaves you empty and alone in a way you can’t match,” Syrillon’s smile was an inch more desperate, begging to convince them both, “I could die right here, right now, and I would be happy for having known you at all.”

“I’d rather you didn’t do that,” Dorian murmured, coming to lean limply into a softer embrace.

“You’ll always have me. You know that, don’t you?” He pressed a kiss to the messy crown of his lover’s head, smothered in the faded smell of styling wax. “No matter what happens, I'll always come back to you.”

"That doesn't put me entirely at ease, you know," Syrillon leaned back, carefully guiding them both to lie back against the pillows. He drew back just enough to brush a few strands of hair from Dorian's forehead, where he lay another kiss. His tone was lamely joking, despite the tightness to it. "The prospect of living in a haunted mansion."

"If I'm the one haunting it, you've nothing to worry about. I'm excellent company."


	6. Unwanted Reminder, Unvoiced Worry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a big writing kick right now at the most inconvenient possible time bc NOW is when I need to be doing other things with my time. smh
> 
> Note: Teeny Tiny Spoiler for Descent DLC

Perhaps the cookies were a bad idea.

But Sera had looked so _needy,_ in that childish, don't-do-it-for- _my-_ benefit sort of way. Like she was so desperately hoping he'd say yes, but didn't want to show it, should the opposite cross his lips. _Food_ hadn't been an especially pleasant concept over those past few days, and as such, his stomach lay empty between sparse meals of plain bread and tea. So, when Sera came across him (though, of course, _he_ was the one who crossed _her_ path; she was simply taking credit), her challenge wasn't so much a challenge but a command. A daunting one.

How could he say no to her? Reasonably, he knew, she was an adult, and saying _"no thank you, I'm not feeling well,"_ or even, _"I don't feel like cookies,"_ would've gotten him off the hook. But still, how could he? He already knew her prior cookie-based trauma. Saying _no_ and leaving her to binge monstrously on the sugary treats wouldn't ruin their friendship or her life. Still, he couldn't bear it. She was so unbearably, heart-wrenchingly mature when she was sad. Not upset (Maker knew she was a childish wretch when that happened), but _sad._ He knew, deep down, that if he told her no, she'd do her little frown she tried to hide and then brush it off like she never wanted to do it in the first place. What were a few cookies, anyway? As long as it made her smile?

Well, her crumb-lined grin could split her face, but his stomach was certainly _not_ so joyous. It turned and it cramped, protesting his please-desperate nature. She grinned and laughed and made a few choice comments, but he kept one hand at his abdomen, wishing away the uncomfortable roiling. She bought him an ale when she noticed (though, as usual, it was on the Inquisition's tab) and he could barely touch it. In a dismissive way, she drained it for him and offered to walk him somewhere so he could ease his stomach.

They walked along the cobbled path, side-stepping nobles and politicians aplenty. Sera kept one hand fisted in the upper arm of his jacket, not quite leading him but not quite following along, either. Maybe it was so she felt less like a serving girl, trailing along behind him. He didn't know.

A pair of expensive, shiny shoes entered his periphery. He was watching the ground, more than anything, as his nausea grew. Unfortunately, said shoes came to stop directly in front of them, stubbornly and haughtily unmoving.

"Your Worship," the shoes' wearer--a man Lavellan didn't care to recognize, whose accent (which was unused to the Orlesian air) perched on pearly-white teeth behind the oddest beard and mustache combination he'd ever seen--greeted. He paid no mind to Sera beside him, which was nothing new, but not a good sigh. "I'm pleased to have caught you. You made it quite the unpleasant hassle, by the by, even if you clearly have time to squander in..." he trailed off, giving Sera a brief glance, "...other company."

"Sorry, m'Lord," Lavellan drawled, giving a bow that only turned his stomach. Face drained pallid, he looked up at the man with as un-queasy a smile as he could muster. "I'm afraid I'm not free, now. I need to be going." He moved to brush past the man but, unfortunately, his other arm was caught before he could escape.

"You would do well to remember your place as the man on _trial,_ Inquisitor. There's much we must discuss." As soon as he'd said it, another, different roll started in Lavellan's gut. _Remember your place, you ignorant wretch! You're no son of mine--_

Lavellan turned, intent to say something that was really, truly dignified. Instead, in some horrible twist of fate, he couldn't control himself. He keeled over, releasing his stomach's contents onto those shiny, pointed loafers. It still tasted like cookies. He could hear Sera's laughing outside of the stunned, tense silence of the man whom he'd defaced and the people passing them by.

Once he'd stood, he'd barely caught the man's incensed expression before some dandy in the passing crowd strong-armed through to offer a handkerchief. Pressing it to his mouth, Lavellan gave another quick bow before he pushed past more urgently, Sera still at his side. She was nearly in tears.

-

Josephine had, without a doubt, jinxed their luck. He was already back on his feet, his stomach now empty aside from the warming analgesic presence of a cup of elfroot tea. Here he was, back to slipping through eluvians and chasing half-heartedly after qunari, Lord-something-or-other's loafers still fading from his mind. He'd probably be paying for those. Still, Sera seemed to think it was quite the gag. It wasn't all bad, he supposed.

He’d moved down to a shortsword, now. His usual sword was too heavy for him to swing reliably, but if anyone asked, he was simply tired of carrying it. Right. Yes.

It was a mine, this time, rather than elven ruins--though there were a few pieces of unmistakably elven-looking architecture smattered here or there--and the thick smell of something unfamiliar hung in the air in a fog. It was dense and held a stiffness like the air just before a lightning storm. Or the distant smell of a once-burning campfire. It hung deep in his lungs and made him need to cough.

Metallic barrels crowded dimly-lit corners and lined sheer precipice with increasing frequency. Lavellan had run a hand over one when he’d the chance and it came away black with that odd-smelling powder. They were too heavy to move, but the generous dispersal meant it wasn’t always necessary. When they were lucky, a simple spell was enough to light up a few barrels and the qunari attending to them.

There was little to encounter aside from those few staggered clusters of qunari, some threatening-looking rock faces and the generic cave-dwelling species they might’ve expected. Deepstalkers, mostly. Nothing compared to the caves they’d explored, all that time ago. The forgotten dwarves, the titan, and the world they’d all agreed to forget upon breaching the surface. 

The deepstalkers were easy enough to kick at or slice without worrying about becoming too overwhelmed. It seemed, as well, that _someone_ always kept an eye out. A few too many little reptiles and Syrillon would find a stunning half lit up in a ball of flame before he could even try to swing for them.

Their path meandered in and out of torch-light. In one such shadowy spot, the path seemed to drop off completely. A short ways below, where the ground picked up, there was a distant measure of firelight. Cassandra seemed to fidget and wring her hands when their Inquisitor claimed he’d be going first. Should it be qunari, or else some sort of trap?

Alas, the drop was hardly a hop, and the solitary man tending the fire seemed more startled than he was threatened. Quickly, he jumped to his feet, plucking up a dull-looking sword as he did. The party hopped down at Lavellan’s back and, tentatively, they approached.

“Who are you?” The stranger demanded.

“The Inquisition. Who are _you?”_ The man, balking, haphazardly set down his sword.

“You’re the Inquisitor?” He asked, his voice lowering at once, as if the deepstalkers rustling in the shadows could understand. “Thank the Maker you’re here. The Viddasala’s out of control, I don’t know _what_ she’s thinking.

“Context, please?”

“Right--” the man gasped for air, eyes bugged out of his head, “--I am-- _was--_ a Templar. Joined the Qun at Kirkwall. It was great, for a while. But now…?” He gave a mournful shake of his head, “the Viddasala’s in charge of seeking out and studying magic. _Dangerous_ magic, usually. Then, typically, they destroy it. But this time, it’s different. Have you ever fought a saarebas?”

“Sure. I’m assuming there’s something to do with this lyrium mine we’re in?” Lavellan asked, gesturing vaguely to the mundane rock walls surrounding them. The veins were distant and weak for most of their wandering, but there was no denying what the place was.

“Dragon’s Breath,” the man supplied, “I don’t know _what_ the Viddasala’s thinking, but I’ve seen what mages out of control can do. Saarebas are a terrifying force, but with lyrium?” His voice was a conspiratory whisper, “it’s all to _save the south,_ and that can only mean one thing.”

-

“Has anyone got theories?” Lavellan piped up, kicking away a deepstalker nipping at his shins. The light of the Templar’s fire carried through one of the rocky doorways, though it wasn’t far enough to outline the little reptiles thrashing their tails at the air around them. “What all this nonsense is about? My money’s on ‘making a qunari-elf master race.’”

“Let me see,” Varric drawled, “Crazed qunari trying to make super-mages for an invasion, assault on the Winter Palace, old elven magic… sounds like a villain, a conflict and a red herring to me. All the best ideas just seem to spring up around you, boss.”

“A field of troublesome flowers, yes, I know.” Lavellan stumbled a step in his follow-through and Cassandra, nearest to him, pretended not to notice.

“What’s troubling me is the name,” the Seeker said, speaking up. Their weapons sheathed but still ready, they continued on over the uneven, rocky ground. _“Dragon’s breath_ is quite foreboding. I wonder what it could mean.”

“I hope it’s a real dragon,” Lavellan said, sighing wistfully, “I’d love to see one again.”

“The dragons _were_ amazing, weren’t they?” Cassandra chimed, giving a sigh of her own.

“Unfortunately, the qunari tend to enjoy their metaphors. I doubt we’ll be seeing much more than those reckless pyrotechnics.” Dorian replied. He lingered closer to the Inquisitor’s side in the dim, chaotic place. “Still, it’s nice that Tevinter isn’t the bad guy for once.”

“Don’t speak too soon,” Lavellan chided, “I’m sure we’ve still a ways to go. Could be a rare alliance.” The mage let out a snort he’d clearly attempted to push down.

Through another uneven archway, they stumbled across a cluster of explosive charges--gaatlok barrels, apparently--just as a group of qunari spotted them in the dark. Lavellan lingered near the charges, a bit puzzled, and uneasily fiddled with them. He would be better off saving his strength, but perhaps they could use these to their advantage…? The others covered his back as he toiled, perhaps staying a bit too close for what would be considered safe.

“No, no,” Varric tsked, drawing back to join him in fiddling with the explosives. He held Bianca in one hand, his other slapping Lavellan’s away. “You turn the cranky bit. Yeah, like that.” Lavellan obeyed, giving the charge a few good turns. A foreboding hissing started.

“Scatter!” The dwarf called. Quickly, he grabbed a fistful of the Inquisitor’s sleeve and pulled him, sprinting, away from the charges with no small measure of panic.

It was quiet, at first, until the ringing started. There was a wave of searing heat that was gone as quickly as it had come. It took a few tries to push himself up, but once he had, Lavellan could finally see the remains of their battleground. There were only shards of metal laying about. One or two fell from the aftermath, clattering against the ground once they’d remembered to fall. The others in the party were far enough from the shrapnel, thankfully, but the body of an unnoticed rogue was now partly ash on the ground. Lavellan let out a cough, the burning smell choking out his breath. He spluttered and waved the air in front of his face.

The ash and powder still caught his breath as they went back to meandering, blind, along dim pathways. There were plenty of charges to detonate and ruckus to cause before they took their leave. With luck, they wouldn’t be buried in the rubble.

Time to mull over reality brought with it the unfortunate anxiety of everything. They were at war-- _actual_ war--and they hadn’t even realized it! Given all he’d seen and lived through, Lavellan thought himself suitably jaded. But sitting just at the precipice of an unseen invasion was enough to give him an anxious shudder. If they hadn’t been at the Winter Palace, would anyone be able to stop it? Not that he was so arrogant to think he was the only one capable; but he supposed his resumé made him fit for the duty.

Not only that--the temple they’d first encountered; Fen’harel’s castle, or some such--it required the use of the Anchor to get about. Had he not been at the Exalted Council, what would the qunari have done? What sort of destruction could have gone by undeterred? What sort of destruction could _still_ go by undeterred? Then, with no small measure of dread, he wondered: what if it was not so much providence as causation? What if he was not caught in the fallout, but instead at the epicentre? It seemed too particular to be coincidence; launching an attack during _his_ Inquisition’s trial.

Trouble seemed to bloom around him at even the slightest whim. He only hoped he wasn’t the one entirely responsible, should they fail. He hoped to not be both the cause and the one to open the floodgates. It was all they could do to go marching through eluvians, ruining what plans they could. But what if this was only a step in a greater plan? A little, paranoid voice chimed: _what if I’m a pawn?_

Still, it was conjecture, and they had a mine to ruin. At the very least, he was pleased to think back on the Iron Bull’s offer of a qunari alliance, which he’d thoroughly spurned. He had the feeling that, even if he hadn’t done so, it wouldn’t have made a difference. Such ambitious plans of attack rarely hinged upon something as finicky as one’s _word._ It was reassuring to know he’d made at _least_ one correct choice in his time.

He’d been keeping to the back of the party, lighting off gaatlok barrels and making whatever chaos he could come up with. It was freeing, at least, to have a break from the endless speeches and milquetoast mingling of the Council. Perhaps not a good way to light off steam, given the chance of maiming, but he would take what he could get. That was one thing he’d learned well enough.

One of the big collections of charges was well over ten barrels. The explosion would be _big;_ enough to entirely crumble the cliffside they were huddled upon. The last qunari downed, Lavellan lit the charge and, someone’s hand fisted in the sleeve of his jacket, he half-sprinted (and was half dragged) out of the explosion’s reach. One barrel lit another, and then another, and then another. He’d grown used to the dull ringing and the momentary searing heat on the back of his scalp. But the rumbling? This time, the rumbling didn’t stop.

Perhaps it was a few too many barrels. The rumbling crawled all through the walls and then into the floor beneath them as they raced, a bit more panicked, as far from the site of the explosion as they could get. They’d have to find some sort of winding path back to the eluvian. Lavellan only hoped there _was_ one.

For all of the long, meandering reasons Varric complained about mines, there was one especially topical one; typically, when one was above ground, they needn’t worry about being crushed to death on a regular basis. Lavellan could be clumsy at the best of times. Now, low on sleep and already weak, his reaction time suffered. It was Cassandra’s hasty action which saved him from getting his leg crushed beneath a crumbling pillar. Then, she hoisted him back to his feet as if it hadn’t happened, and they pressed on.

Where the water came from was anybody’s guess. But, given their risky pyrotechnics, it was coming in fast and the depths of the cave had already been filled. If Lavellan looked down--which he tried to not do, lest he get a bit too woozy on his feet--he could see the distant glimmer of the water steadily approaching. It spilled out of cracks in the sloping ceiling, pouring over the rough-cut stairs and making their ascension all the more precarious.

Thankfully, Dorian climbed at his back and Varric at his side. Should he slip, he (hopefully) wouldn’t tumble too far. If they weren’t running for their lives, he was certain Dorian would make some sort of charming quip about romantically diving after him, should he fall into the distant water.

His next step slipped, clumsy, and someone caught his arm. Regardless, his knee cracked against a rough-cut stair and shocked pain ran through his entire leg. He tried to step again, but that leg was limp and weak, unable to take the weight of his armored body. Cassandra fell back, looping one of his arms around her shoulder. Stubbornly, he continued on with her to provide him support.

The Anchor, though it ached to use, lit their way back to safety. It kept them from stumbling over rubble, anyway, which kept a bad day from becoming worse. He didn’t dare say so, should anyone tell him to stop using it, but he found the hurt spreading. Ounce by ounce, its intensity increased. His fingers tingled with pins and needles. Throughout his arm and up to his shoulder, each beat of his heart sent a throbbing wave of pain. Like a pinching or a stabbing, the Anchor’s influence crawled up his neck and into his jaw. Bit by bit, it encroached upon his temple and forehead. He dreaded the next time he saw his reflection, lest the scars be more intense than before.


	7. Barely the Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bro just wait a couple chapters for shit to go DOWN

He was on the edge of falling asleep standing. How long had he been awake? It was evening when they returned; Cassandra took the liberty of walking him to where he and his advisors would have their late-night meeting. She’d left him at their temporary war council with a borrowed chair, mentioning something about a medic as she exited the room. 

Leliana looked well put-together, like always. As if she never slept. Cullen and Josephine looked more ruffled, though the latter had the telltale signs of work-weariness, rather than an interrupted sleep. The candle on her writing pad had been burnt down to a waxy stump in the hours he’d been away. Still, the group huddled together around their makeshift war table and got to business.

Lavellan struggled to recall every detail, though he hoped he’d gotten most of it. Viddasala, plans of invasion, “saving the south”, lyrium mining, gaatlok barrels, eluvians, and all the loose ends and unknowns as of that moment. The tense edge of being depended upon was back, which he had gladly shed the _last_ time he’d saved the continent; he was lucky to be blonde, else he’d already be grey. He was barely thirty--

“Dragon’s breath, you say?” Leliana asked, weighing the words on her tongue. “Interesting.”

“But what does it _mean?”_ Josephine asked aloud.

“Qunari _do_ so love their figures of speech.” Leliana said.

“It’s conjecture; qunari agents sneaking into the Winter Palace is bad enough already.” Cullen murmured, arms crossed over his chest. His jacket laid undone and a loose tunic was halfway tucked into the hem of his trousers. He looked about ready to fall asleep, as well.

“It is a deadly concept, to be sure. We will be on high alert, Inquisitor.” Leliana added. “Still, there is the matter of the Inquisition being accused as agents of Fen’harel, both in the letters and by those you have encountered. Perhaps it is a ruse?”

“For what?” Lavellan asked, letting out a sigh, “here’s hoping we find answers soon enough.”

“Let’s see the council try to disband the Inquisition after we save their lives a second time.” Cullen said, leaning onto the table between them.

“Indeed,” Leliana drawled, “our only lead is the Viddasala; if we can discover more about her intentions, perhaps we can get to the bottom of this.” There was a distant pair of footsteps. Then, abruptly, the doors opened.

Arl Teagan--with Duke Cyril huddled in at his back, tagging along--broached the doorway, then came lumbering down the carpeted steps. There was an air of stuffy antipathy to them that heralded something more serious.

“Gentlemen!” Josephine exclaimed, almost scolding.

“My apologies, Lady Josephine,” the Duke said, appearing far more level-headed in comparison to his company, “there has been an incident regarding one of the Inquisition’s soldiers.”

“The _nerve_ of this council!” Arl Teagan spat, cutting him off. “It was bad enough that you hid the qunari body from everyone. Now, your soldiers attack servants, and yet you still claim that your organization has not overstepped?” His eyes landed on the Inquisitor who, now both injured and exhausted, bristled like an animal.

“I was asked _personally_ to deal with the situation. If you wish to be kept informed of matters which are none of your business, Arl Teagan, I would argue that _you’re_ the one overstepping bounds.” Lavellan replied sharply.

“Secrets and _lies._ Can you not see why we fear your Inquisition? You act as if you’re the only solution to every problem. How long until you drag us into another war?”

“The Exalted Council is, of course, our foremost priority,” Josephine said, cutting Lavellan off before he could reply with anything more choice, “but our Inquisitor will address this matter _personally,”_ upon enunciating the last of her sentence, Josephine shot Lavellan a stiff, expectant look. He didn’t respond, but his gaze stayed hard.

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” Duke Cyril said, filling the silence, “As always, Orlais stands ready to assist you.” He offered a polite bow. Arl Teagan, on the other hand, gave one last lingering sneer before trailing back up the stairs.

-

It was a gaatlok barrel. There was a _fucking_ gaatlok--no, two? Three?--just sitting there. Waiting. Cold fear turned to absolute panic and ran along Lavellan’s spine. Still, he fought to keep his expression stern. This week was just getting worse, wasn’t it? 

The familiar Inquisition guard--the blonde one, who’d taken him from the council not even a day ago--now stood aside, twiddling her fingers in line with the accused Orlesian servant. He knew Iron Bull well enough--knew his _stories_ and his techniques and his advice well enough--to know what this was.

 _This_ was a set-up.

First of all, the odds of seeing the _same_ soldier twice, speaking to them and interacting with them? Not entirely likely, in such a seemingly random circumstance. It could have been any of the hundred-some soldiers they’d brought, but it was only this one? No.

Second, the Orlesian servant didn’t seem right. He’d moved the charges on his own, claiming it was wine for the guests. Guests who would be high-ranking, high-paying nobility; difficult to eliminate without being caught. Not only that, but there wasn’t a single smear of black powder on his hands or clothes. How? As well, any Orlesian servant could tell wine from _whatever_ those barrels smelled like.

There was no doubt in his mind that the servant was a liar. The soldier? Only time would tell.

Lavellan looked back to the Orlesian guard whose face was now wound into a sneer. Carefully, he offered a polite bow and as smooth and un-patronizing a smile as he could manage. They’d already worn out their welcome; he could try to keep them there just a little longer. Even if it made nerves prick on the back of his neck. One wrong, careful move and they would all be blown to little bits. He did all he could to stop himself fidgeting.

“I apologize for my soldier’s actions. With your permission, I would like to take her into custody.” The guard let out a tight sigh, but he seemed to relax an inch. The moderate light of the streetlamps highlighted the disappearing crease in his brow. That was something, at least.

“As you say, Inquisitor,” he replied, stepping aside. Then, more quietly: “Lord Cyril will hear about this.” Lavellan straightened up, biting the inside of his cheek to restrain the wave in his gut. Anger, that he was being seen as the puppetmaster and the villain, when he was only trying to traverse an uneasy minefield. Dread, at what was to come.

Still… the soldier and the servant likely wouldn’t be working together. Whatever the soldier was up to, _she_ wasn't involved with the gaatlok barrels. Starting a scuffle and drawing attention to it meant that they were caught before anything could happen. He watched as the Orlesian soldiers left. As he did, that same blonde stepped in towards him.

“Your Worship,” she drawled, “I also found this by the barrels,” she handed over a crumpled letter. It appeared to be qunlat. “I can’t read the language.” He took the offered note, but watched her carefully. Then, with a moment’s pause:

“Watch yourself,” he said, keeping his voice low, “strange things afoot.” He leaned in to murmur closer to her pointed ear, “get these barrels away from the palace. Quickly. Don’t tell anyone where you put them and make _sure_ they won’t be found. Better yet, destroy them. Keep alert.” Given a nod, he strode past them, headed towards where he’d spotted a familiar glint of golden metal in amongst the rammed-earth buildings.

-

“Smile, Inquisitor,” Leliana greeted, a pleasant reminder, “was the matter with the guard resolved?” The letter stuffed into his pocket, he stepped in closer and put on an easy smile.

“Of course.” Then, a long sigh passed through his lungs. “I’m exhausted,” he murmured, “this whole place is draining. All these pomps.” She let out a polite laugh.

“That is the nature of Orlais, no?”

“Suppose.” She waved him a step closer. Carefully, she fixed his collar. As she did, he slipped the crumpled note into her grasp. Once her hands retreated, they were hidden entirely beneath her trumpet sleeves.

“This fuckin’ outfit,” he scoffed, “hate the thing. Never looks right.” Leliana’s hum was placid and vague. “So, gaatlok barrels in the Winter Palace. Probably bad.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” she said, keeping her easy smile. He worked to follow her lead. The feeling of eyes on him might’ve been an illusion borne of paranoia. “An invasion would be met with fierce resistance. But, if the entirety of the Exalted Council were to die in an explosion? The south would be vulnerable. Orderless.”

“Sounds like the sort of thing Corypheus should’ve done.”

“Mm. This would certainly be a very different world, if that had been the case; a plan as swift and unstoppable as the breath of a dragon.” He gave a quiet nod, even as a spike of fear ran through him. His sleep would be lacking for a second time, it seemed.

“I will have this translated and a copy sent to you. Go, rest. I hear you’re injured.” Syrillon fought to pretend that he hadn’t been leaning more on his left leg than his right as soon as she mentioned it.

“Right. Another thing,” he said, brushing off the minor concern, “that soldier who intercepted the barrels. There’s something off, but an enemy of an enemy is a friend, yeah?” Leliana gave a nod. “And the servant who was smuggling them--can’t make a move on them, but I don’t trust them an inch. Keep your distance. Don’t need the council calling us out for a second time.” Leliana gave a deep bow, hands clasped together.

“Of course, Inquisitor,” she drawled, “please, get some sleep.” She strode past him, the train of her robes barely touching the ground as she went. Syrillon watched her fade to a vague shape in the lacking light. Then, he started, with some struggle, towards his borrowed bedroom.

-

The bathwater sloshed lowly as he shifted, trying to lean mostly on the pillow at the rim and not the hard ceramic itself. His injured knee had started to swell, and now, there was a defined black line where it had struck the stone some hours earlier. He leaned his head back, eyes falling shut in the stillness of his room. He fought to not look at his marked hand, should worry bloom. There was no point. It would grow worse without his say.

Still, curiosity dogged him.

He took a long pull of the liquor he’d been given, holding it within a gentle grasp in his good hand. He hadn't bothered to pour it into a glass. The entire council was starting to feel like a strange purgatory; war and intrigue blended together in a haze of too-little sleep and dizzying pain, all in equal measure. It was like things were coming to a crescendo, and he would be lying if he said the unseen precipice didn’t put him on-edge.

With some effort, he stood from the water and then stepped out. Dark, defined footprints were left in his wake along the rug. He flopped himself onto his bed to get off his feet, slipping into a pair of smalls. Then, summoning his strength, he limped to the door and retrieved the letter which had been slid beneath it for his viewing pleasure. He sat partway on the edge of a writing desk beside the door, knee too aching and feet too worn to have the patience to stand.

The script was hasty and uneven, but it was legible enough. _When task is complete, report to Viddasala through the door marked by a bookcase._ He murmured it aloud to himself, lest he forget. He repeated it, like a mantra, as he meandered back to the bed. It was too soft and its material too submissive beneath the pressure of his good knee as he moved to climb atop it. Laying out on his stomach atop the bedspread, he lit up a spell in one hand and burnt the paper to ash. He rubbed out what little fell upon the cream-coloured bedspread. He turned onto his back, repeating the translation to himself.

His tense, aching muscles submitted into the comfort of the plush feather-down bedding, sleep already perching behind his eyes. He started to drift off, still whispering the words. As a lazy afterthought, he crawled to lay against the pillows and extinguish the lone candle at his bedside. A shroud of darkness fell over the room, though what little moonlight slipped through the drapes still caught metallic accents and the vague shapes of furniture around the perimeter.

He closed his eyes, mind still racing. A too-heavy hand tugged the tucked-in blankets to curl over his bare torso, though they stayed pinned beneath him. It would take too much energy to tuck himself entirely beneath them. A distant wind rushed past his partly-open window and a chorus of shivering trees filled the silence. If he peeked one eye open, he could see the distant yellow lantern-glow outside his window. A world away. Aching despair turned in his gut.

If the prior days were any sort of indication, things would grow far more worrisome soon enough. He turned on his side, the pillows crunching beneath his head. He squeezed his eyes shut, desperate for some small rest. Letting out a tiny sigh, he willed it to be enough. It would be so nice, to go find Dorian's room, slip into his bed, and pretend that it was only the warmth he craved. He'd be asleep by now, most likely, and Syrillon hadn't the strength to go wandering. Ah, what a simple but altogether impossible urge: to indulge in his own husband's company, if even for a quiet moment.


	8. All New, Faded for Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is one of my faves

It was jarring, just how different the world on the other side of the eluvian felt from the Crossroads. Warm, but the air seemed to press in on all sides in a smothering embrace. A familiarly bespoke-seeming smell lingered in the air--Syrillon's own personalized impression of the fade--alongside the scent of something pretending to be paper. Each step outside of the eluvian’s shelter seemed to echo on into the distant mist forever. They passed little columns constructed from stacked tomes, lost pieces of parchment wallpapering every surface. Sometimes, they came drifting down through the air from nowhere at all; as if someone, a thousand years prior, had tossed a bundle up with all their might and it had only just remembered to return.

Did the elves make books? Looking around, Syrillon confirmed that they were, indeed, in the fade. So… were these books real? If the elves used magic to keep a library, why make them appear as books? Did they ever make such a mundane thing? How could they create magic to replicate something they’d never seen? He rubbed fitfully at his temple, glancing around the place. They seemed to be traversing a floating rock. Wherever they now stood, it was far from the fade he’d seen those two years prior.

Along their path was a spirit, tethered to a forgotten skull by a cord of copper-coloured light. Tentatively, Lavellan approached.

“Andaran atish’an,” the faded spirit greeted, swaying like a mirage. The voice, like a woman’s, continued. Her elvish was precise and flowing and even Lavellan found he couldn’t make out some of the words. They were antiquated; lost with time and misuse.

“Ah… hello.” He tried.

“If you wish, honoured elvhen, I would speak so that your guests may understand.”

“Well, isn’t that charming. Be my guest.” He chose to not think of the implication of it: an ancient elvhen, capable of speaking a language it never saw created. Did this library have so much knowledge, or was it simply a trick of the fade?

“I am Study. I am a learning thirst. Come, know what has not been lost. New words--new stories--the qunari would not approach. But we learned their words, as well. If you wish to exchange knowledge, they congregate by the lower gate.”

“Thank you, Study,” Lavellan replied, “so… what is this? A library?”

“A singular library does not encompass it. This is the living knowledge of the Empire; the _libraries_ of every city and the wisdom of every court. A connecting place whose paths are in disarray.”

“What happened here?”

“The Vir Dirthara was created with both the world and the fade. When these two sundered, so too did this place. Paths were destroyed, knowledge fragmented. Many were trapped. I preserve their final words.”

“That’s nice,” he replied, a bit more uneasy, “have you heard anything about a qunari called Viddasala?”

“Yes. She uses scholars and mages to study this place. They seek to know the veil, but they are afraid.”

“Can’t imagine why. This is quite the place.”

“I regret, I do not know. Perhaps, if you discover another one of me nearer the qunari, I may have answers. Kindly give my greetings; I have not thought with myself in some time.”

“Oh, of course. I’ll be going. Pleasure talking to you, Study.”

“Before you leave, honoured guest, know this: another visitor, not of the qunari, recently woke the librarians. Beware them. They are unwell.”

-

For all its terrors, the Fade was a sight to behold. Upside-down surfaces floated parallel to where they now walked, calling into question just which way was right-side up. Unreal structures of half-collapsed castles hinged upon small piles of brick. Dead, fear-struck qunari littered some places. Archivists were smattered around, as well, telling the story of the Fall. The Dread Wolf, Fen’Harel, creating the veil.

Lavellan fought to keep his mind on-task, even as each new discovery started to make him splinter. It was easier when surrounded with such a stunning marvel of a place. So few had ever been to the fade in person, but he'd been _twice?_ Certainly not where he needed his luck, but he supposed he could take what he got. It was certainly a fascinating place; illogical, chaotic and unreal but so... normal. Expected. Perhaps it was the magic sat inside him--a small, weak flame; not enough lyrium as kindling or the fuel of _use_ to make it grow--that made him move through with a sort of detached understanding. That made it feel familiar enough to be at ease.

At least Dorian seemed to be the same; cautious, with a the same detached, scholarly interest he approached any other place with, mundane or no.

Lavellan's hand still stung from the statue of a blooming flower which had lashed out to bite at him, much in the same way as the one in the first ruin they encountered. He kept his hand grasped in the other, applying pressure to pretend as if it would get better anytime soon.

“Look at this place,” Dorian piped up, casting his gaze towards an especially impressive view of far-off ruins, “now that we’ve so many samples, how hard would it be to create eluvians of our own?”

“Maybe not.” Syrillon countered, doubt hanging in his tone. He looked back to his hands, finding them empty without having set down a book he'd picked up. Each one he touched, its pages shifted and changed so the words could be read; adjusting themselves to a simpler, more childish elven language. Even as much as they tried to acquaint him, they still escaped when he was unfocused.

“Mm. Are you certain it is wise?” Cassandra added.

“It would just be nice to make something magical that’s not _evil,_ for a change. Say, if I get around to it, perhaps I’ll send you one. Striking women always have use of a charming reflection.”

“Do they, now?” Cassandra drawled.

“Say, what about handsome elves?” Syrillon piped up.

“And dwarves?” Said Varric, taking his eyes off the odd, worrisome landscape for the moment.

“If I get around to it, we’ll all have one. Could get together for brunches, or some such.” Dorian said.

“Maybe we’ll sit down and talk politics.” Varric ribbed, drawing a sound of disgust from the mage.

Soon enough, their path grew more treacherous. Eluvians and winding pathways inevitably led to a cluster of armed qunari. Even before Lavellan could assign positions, Cassandra was pushing him to take cover behind Dorian as she rushed the field. The fight wasn’t a difficult one, but there was more than one occasion where Lavellan moved to enter the fray and something stopped him. “Accidental” caltrops being dropped in his path, or an enemy being yanked out of his range, or else eviscerated altogether before he could land a hit on them. It seemed like a well-engineered coincidence, at first, which he was sure was the idea.

He'd plunged his blade into the back of a rogue not two strides from himself. They slumped off his sword and he caught sight of a crossbow bolt already embedded in their eye socket. _Stealing kills_ was something that only the Iron Bull ever took especially seriously. Fights came and went and, for the most part, things would equal out over time. But there was an absence of awareness to it, now. Any other time and Varric would've made some chime of _should've been faster, Boots!_ and then give a little cackle as the elf rolled his eyes. But now?

The battleground laid silent for a few beats once all the warriors were downed. Lavellan whirled to look at the party, who all did their best to appear impassive. Varric loaded a bolt, Cassandra checked the edge of her sword, Dorian flipped through his codex. As if they knew exactly what he looked to them for and were doing their absolute darnedest to pretend they didn't.

“Alright, what’s going on?” Lavellan demanded. The party, called out, shared a quiet set of glances. Cassandra, silently peer-pressured, stepped up.

“You’ve been weak, Inquisitor. We thought perhaps it would be better if you didn’t push yourself too hard.”

“Push myself too hard?" Tight, coarse anger threatened to rise in his throat like bile.

"Don't pretend like you've been getting full nights' rests," Dorian added, pointed, "dreaming of sugarplums and all that _rot._ You might pretend like you're not crumbling into little pieces, but it's quite apparent."

"That doesn't give you all permission to conspire behind my back. You could _speak_ to me."

"You have a habit of stubbornness," Cassandra said, gentler in tone, "I should know. Even if you will not allow us to make things easier, we must still try. We are your friends, Inquisitor, and we don't want to see you get hurt."

“Yeah, all due respect, Boots,” Varric piped up, not letting go of the subject, “that's never been the best option with you, and you already look like you’re falling apart at the seams. We all figured that making haste would be smart.”

Exasperated and disbelieving, Lavellan looked between his party members. The layer of honest worry he was levelled with only made his tension grow. He _knew_ he was weak. He _knew_ he was falling apart. He _knew_ he needed to be more careful, but what other choices did he have? He, for whatever reason, was the only one who could stop things. He _had_ to come along. If he couldn’t make it to the end himself, how could he be strong enough to win against the Viddasala? How could he stop her? Should his limp corpse be used as fodder?

He needed to prove that he was strong enough, just one more time. Maybe, if he could make it through this, he could survive the Anchor. Control it. Maybe his sickness and his weakness could just be a red herring, after all. Maybe, if he was strong enough, he could see peace again; live within his own control again. Just for a moment. Just long enough to take a breath.

"I am not some maiden in need of defending!” Lavellan replied sharply. At the varying looks of mild surprise, he knew it was a bit too harsh. Quickly, he worked to reel himself back in. Correct his tone. Anger still huddled, tight, in his chest. Where had that come from, so suddenly? “Thank you,” he said stiffly, eyes more downcast as he looked between them, as if readying himself for a scolding that wouldn't come, “but it’s not necessary.”

"Are you...?" Varric's uneasy question was lost in their Inquisitor's abrupt flee. Lavellan, sheathing his blade in what was probably too rough an action, brushed past his party; childishly outpacing them. His hands stayed clenched into gloved fists; uncomfortable, bitter anger aching in his chest. Why did he have to make the Inquisition his home? Why couldn’t he have stayed cold and withdrawn and reticent? Then, maybe they wouldn’t tell him to slow down when it was clear that he needed to. Then, maybe he wouldn’t feel so heavy with guilt whether he lived or died for them.

Huffily, he passed through another eluvian. A winding path of bricks and rubble underfoot, aeon-old scars of carnage only the spirits cared to remember. He could still hear their footsteps quick behind him, careful to not let him leave their sight. He needed them safe and sure and within arms’ reach, as they tried to be, but somehow still uncaring enough of his state to allow him to hurt. He had to get through this as soon as possible. Find some way to figure out just _why_ his patience ran so thin, when every second before now, it had seemed to be endless. Why he coveted his own childish misery and his pain, despite how Dorian had tried to harass him out of it.

Why did he need to hurt to prove that he was strong? Weren’t his scars enough?

Why did he need to push others away to keep them safe?

Through another eluvian, the ground became more regular. Back to a courtyard, now: a covered plane with five or six eluvians. They’d used most of them, but he was already all turned around. Hopefully, if they kept wandering, the answer would come upon them soon enough. He passed the large copper statue of the flowering imago and, once more, its energy lashed out at him.

This time, it was different. This time, when a coil of light wrenched at the Anchor, it seemed to respond; a burst of light and energy which made his hair stand on-end. The greenish light dispersed like a firework, expanding out until it could soak into the floor and the book-clad walls. Lavellan’s step faltered with the unusual pain. Quickly after, it felt almost as it had before the mark. Normal.

Still, his legs were weakly wobbling and he held his marked hand in a vice grip, as if any less pressure would allow the pain back in. Hands at his shoulders steadied him.

“Are you alright?” Dorian asked, breathless worry caught in his throat.

“Fine, now.” Syrillon replied tightly, gritting despite the lack of pain. He let out a soothing breath and forced a bit more relaxation.

“Is the Anchor growing worse?” Cassandra asked quietly, as if everyone else couldn’t hear her.

“I said it’s fine.” Lavellan’s tone was less sharp than it had been earlier, but there was still an uncharacteristic sternness to it. “Let’s keep moving. We need to find the Viddasala.”

-

His childish fit had only earned him an inch of freedom, it seemed. Farther along their path, they encountered the librarians which Study had warned them about. Whatever they had begun as, they now looked nearer to the Fear they’d warred against all those years ago at Adamant. Long, articulated limbs came from and went nowhere. No eyes, but hundreds of them at the same time. A long, gaping mouth crammed full of sharp teeth. Why? What did it eat?

Lavellan had only gotten a few hits on them. It was… better, he supposed, than being babied. Still, the collective gaze of the party seemed to linger on him more than their targets. Watching carefully, should he need any sort of support. He might’ve scolded them about their distraction if he found it any less useful.

The ruins were quaintly peaceful when there was no fighting to be done. Enormous studies lay half-open and half-collapsed. Books of memories were splayed out on table-tops, some of them sitting exactly where they’d been left when the Vir Dirthara fell. Standing in exactly the place as those ancient elvhen was fascinating and melancholy at the same time. It made him itch and ache with some sort of embarrassment; like he wasn’t deserving of that connection--not elven enough--despite already feeling it.

They passed through a study with only two walls remaining. They were perpendicular to one another, lit by sconces tacked into the cracked material of the shelter. A few cluttered desks, piles of rubble, and something like scaffolding were all that occupied the open-ended room. What caught Lavellan’s eye, however, was the murals.

Bright, precise lines and vivid colour told a story he couldn’t quite understand. Figures, both familiar and strange, warred together in a golden city. Wolves bordered the painting, heads lolled back in a silent howl. It was golds and oranges and little, tiny splashes of cooler colour. The longer he looked at them, the more he made out. Delight and sorrow mingled in his chest. Delight, mainly that such a beautiful image somehow survived the ages, unfaded.

Solas would have loved the place. Syrillon had kept the murals on the lower floor of the rotunda. In cool, lonely nights, when sleep wouldn’t take to him or the anchor was being especially distracting, Syrillon would sneak from his chambers to go sit at the long-abandoned desk space. It still lay cluttered, as if the mage had never left. He would study the paintings, dull in the low light, and speak to himself in murmurs. Sometimes, his eyes would droop and he would walk himself back to bed. Others, he would fall asleep at that desk and a soldier would come through to wake him the following morning.

They left the half-collapsed study, but Syrillon spared one last, lingering look at the murals. The rest of the dimmed world seemed far colder in comparison.


	9. A Glimpse at The End

Clean tile met them underfoot as they stepped through the eluvian which had been clasped in the flat of a disembodied golden palm. Distant figures of qunari stood at the ready, weapons already unsheathed. They didn’t move to attack. Another figure, atop a ledge, looked down on them as they entered. Her voice boomed with her greeting.

“The Inquisitor,” she said, harsh baritone echoing off the rocks, “survivor of the Breach, herald of change, hero of the south. I’ve heard much about you.”

“The Viddasala, I presume?” Lavellan replied, coming to a stop on the other side of the flowing stream which divided them. It ran straight to the edge of the rocky plane to descend into the cloudy abyss.

“After you fulfilled your purpose at the Breach, I was astonished to learn that you still walk free amongst your people. Your duty is over, Inquisitor. It is time for your magic to end.”

“And, of course, _you’re_ the one who gets to decide that.”

“I have seen my fair share of catastrophe, but this chaos defies comprehension.” Lavellan almost wanted to toss something. Start a fight. Then, maybe things would end faster and he could die. Else, he’d get back to Halamshiral to take a nap.

“Oh, and _certainly,_ an invasion is the perfect answer!”

“The people need _order,_ Inquisitor. Do you think this chaos ended when the breach was sealed? Do you know what terror your mark could bring? What lives it could cast into ruin? The Qun provides strength by order; you would sow the seed of destruction. This agent of Fen’harel has taken lives which were meant to be spared!”

“What, this again?” Lavellan asked, speaking at a shout. “Why do you think we have something to do with Fen’harel?” The Viddasala turned her back, giving an order to one of the antaam at her side.

“Meet me at the Darvaarad.” She ordered, calling to the soldiers below. “We will finish this.” She disappeared into another eluvian. Just as she did, the soldiers on the ground moved to their positions. Cassandra tucked herself protectively in front of their Inquisitor once more.

-

As soon as the doors opened upon their war council, Cullen was scaling the stairs to take the surgeon’s place. He looped Lavellan’s good arm over his shoulder, his marked one tucked in at his side with the protective embrace of a small splint.

“Those antaam, I’m tellin’ ye,” Lavellan drawled, leaning hard against him. They eased down the stairs carefully one at a time. “No bedside manner at all. It’s embarrassing.”

“My Lord, are you in pain?” Josephine asked. They breached the landing and quickly, she pulled out a plush chair for him to sit in.

“Not so much, the surgeon gave me something. Would hate to fall down the stairs and embarrass myself in front of the Divine, though.” He soothed into the seat with a groan. Leliana, standing across from him, gave a small nod and tight smile. There was a pull of concern to her brow that she tried to disguise, however. Lavellan crossed one leg over the other as casually as he could manage.

“Of course,” Josephine said quietly, both her and the commander returning to their side of the table. “Then… shall we begin?” Leliana gave a brief nod.

“There are confirmed reports from my agents of gaatlok barrels in Denerim’s palace, as well as Val Royeaux and across the Free Marches. The Exalted Council is not the only target.” Cullen, hands resting atop the hilt of his blade, let out a tight sigh.

“The qunari are one order from destroying every noble house in the south.”

“Well, there is a bright side,” Josephine piped up, wincingly optimistic, “surely, the Council will see the Inquisition’s value, now that we can inform them of the threat.”

“Not when the Inquisition is responsible for it to begin with.” Leliana corrected grimly. “Those gaatlok barrels arrived on the Inquisition manifest.”

“So it’s _our_ fault?” Lavellan asked, leaning forward in his chair. His side protested the movement and he muffled his pained grunt with a bite on his cheek. His fist stayed clenched in the aftermath.

“No. But it is _our_ responsibility. The elven servant handling the barrels has disappeared, but notes in his quarters suggest that he was a qunari spy.” Leliana replied.

“And the guard?”

“Nothing, yet.”

“How are we supposed to get through this when we can’t even trust our own people?” Cullen asked, letting out a more despaired sigh. He leaned both hands onto the table and let his head shake.

“Many of our elven workers have disappeared,” Leliana added, “all of them joined the Inquisition after fleeing the chaos in Kirkwall.” Lavellan forced himself to sit back in his seat, hands laid over his knee. He managed a bitter laugh. He should’ve been more choosy, somehow. He should’ve done better, instead of recruiting anyone who asked. What had he been thinking?

“You think this is funny?” Josephine asked, voice tight. “I fought to defend this Inquisition during the Exalted Council and for _what?_ So we could deceive and endanger those we claim to protect?”

“There must be a way to root out these spies and get them out of our ranks.” Cullen said, standing up straighter. Josephine set down her writing pad in a huff. Lavellan, mute, barely blinked. He stared into the middle distance, lulled by the familiar sound of arguing. Every breath felt tighter, now. Like the air itself was trying to smother him. Had he taken a bit of the fade with him, in that way?

“This isn’t _about_ the spies!” She insisted, “this isn’t _about_ the invasion. This is about us--this is about _you--_ you hid the qunari body and all but seized control of the Winter Palace! How will the council be able to trust us now? Why should they? Chaos blooms wherever we are! They seek to break us apart and maybe they’re right.”

“Josie,” Leliana piped up, her tone far more even, “this council is not the most pertinent issue we face. If this is the end of the Inquisition, so be it, but we must focus on the task at hand and stop this from getting any worse.” The council of three turned their collective gaze towards the Inquisitor, who sat silently steaming.

Jaw grit tight and fist propped against his mouth, aching despair turned in his stomach. The Inquisition was starting to feel like a useless, impossible errand. So many people with so many motivations, all pulling him this way and that, not realizing that a few more strides would have him drawn and quartered. He'd thought he was finished; he _was_ finished, but what had started as _just one more thing_ was now starting to feel like a precipice. The happier possibilities he'd laid out following the council were an impossibility, now; hinging upon so much chance. Stopping in Tevinter for a surprise meeting, perhaps, or drinking brandy, alone, looking out on the frostbacks: just a figment. He hadn't planned for things to end so soon.

A soft, desperate sigh pushed past his lips and he squeezed his eyes shut. That same anger--the one he couldn't control, whose origin he could only speculate, even if the half-formed thought still ran a cold shiver up his spine--sparked deep down in his gut, begging to be kindled. The anchor called out to it, dully, and he swallowed another desperate wave of worry. He was already running out of time. He should be spending it _doing_ something--

“Fuck the Council,” he murmured, “they can repay my service with a knife in the back all they want. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Inquisitor,” Cullen started, a bit quieter.

“I’ll die if it means the threat is neutralized. That’s how it’s always been, right? My life has to be put on the line because of something I can’t control. So be it.” Cold and bitter, he stared into the wood grain of the table. His good hand gripped tight at the armrest, fingernails digging into the underside and bending under the pressure. “The Anchor is getting worse. I might not live to see another year but what does it matter, so long as the Council is satisfied?”

The traditional chantry symbol--the eye of the Inquisition--it seemed to much less comforting, now, when he saw it in his periphery. Like it taunted him. Was this what Ameridan went through? Would he, too, be whittled down to nothing; a shell of his actions, with no semblance of his personality left behind? How could he hate those elves who betrayed him? More likely than not, they were afraid and _bitter,_ like that sting in his throat, and they grappled for something like _meaning_ in a world that lamented their very existence. Was he on the right side?

Lavellan rose to uneasy feet, leaning heavily on the edge of the table as he did. Cullen twitched in place, as if eager to assist but holding himself back.

“I need to get to the Darvaarad while I can still fight.” Maker knew the rest of his time felt like a waste. He'd be better off drawing the curtains closed sooner; spare his friends the pain of his image dwindling, ruined by the pain and the anger of his suffering. He would leave them with only the prophetic, gleaming image he'd made, whether it was today or tomorrow.

“Lavellan, ser, you are in no shape to fight. Perhaps we can send soldiers to assist--”

“Mobilizing our forces would send the Council into a panic.” Josephine interrupted, “Arl Teagan already suggested that we might drag them into another war. We needn’t prove him correct.”

“We’re not dragging anyone into _anything!”_ Cullen replied, more tightly, “it’s the qunari making the moves.” The tension of the air pressed in another inch and Lavellan could feel the pounding in his ears. The lump in his throat only grew.

“Regardless,” Leliana started, cutting short their squabble, “we can all agree that you should be careful, Inquisitor. It would do no one any good if you were to tear yourself apart.” Her gaze was careful, as was the hand she put out, like trying to talk him off a ledge he was placing himself upon. Wry tears threatened the backs of his eyes and he let out a bitter laugh.

“No?” Lavellan’s lips wound into a bitter sneer. Here was the Divine, telling him to stay halcyon as he played the role of the one thread which southern Thedas dangled upon, precarious. Here was his council, unknowing of his condition because of what _he’d_ done-- _he_ pushed them away; _he_ refused their help; _he_ never told them a whisper of his pain outright--and they asked him to keep himself in check.

Aching anger stirred in his chest because it was _his_ fault, even if it felt so desperately unfair. Why couldn’t he tear himself apart? The world had taken everything from him, and now, too, his right to end his life by his own hand. Did he _have_ any control? 

Regardless of how much they thought they cared, they'd only proven to him the inconvenience of his existence. Every move he made would be misinterpreted, wouldn't it? It would be easier for them if he was only a memory. A martyr.

He slammed his own hand down on the war table, numbing his fingers once the abrupt pain faded. An ounce of that anger leaked out, thudding behind his eyes. The force jostled the figurines laid out along the map. Josephine jumped, though she played it down with a tight, barely-there gasp and a downcast glance away from their Herald.

“What does it matter?” Lavellan demanded, fingertips shaking as they dug into the rough woodgrain, “why should it be any business of yours how I handle this?” He leaned a bit closer, “I’m just another dead elf that history will bury!”

One beat. Then two. Then his eyes fell to the toppled miniatures and another wave passed over him, overshadowing his anger. It stung like cinder behind his eyes and made it impossible to swallow past the dry lump in his throat. His lip threatened to quiver so he had to clamp it in place with his teeth. _Don't cry,_ he urged himself, _please, don't cry. Not here._ The Divine’s gaze, kept even, fell on the table. She gave a tiny nod in the ensuing silence.

“Of course, your Worship,” she said quietly. Then, “I will handle the council.”

“That’s--” Josephine started, a weaker whisper. Fearful, though not from the outburst.

“Please, Josie. Find whatever you can to make the Inquisitor’s trip more bearable. Commander, please assemble a group to accompany him.” Both of them gave an obedient nod. Then, sparing their Inquisitor one last mournful glance, trailed up the stairs at his back. Weakly, he surrendered himself back into his chair. He rubbed fitfully at his eyes, a tight, aching sigh escaping his chest. The doors at the top of the steps fell shut.

“Whatever happens,” Leliana spoke in the dull silence between them two, “I will do all I can for you.” He gave a mute nod, staring into the map and miniatures laid out on the tabletop. The castle--their symbol for Skyhold, currently--lay on its side.

“If I die,” he said weakly, fidgeting with shaky fingers, “look after Dorian for me. Please.” Guilt and fear warred in his stomach and caught his breath in his throat. Tears stung at the back of his eyes and he willed her to leave so he might mourn for himself in private.

“Of course.” Reading his shy, shaky body language, she moved around the war table. She placed one comforting hand at his shoulder, gave it a squeeze, and then left the room.

-

The forge fire pricked heat at the back of his neck. He tightened the strap of his chestplate, grunting as it pressed uncomfortably into a new bruise. At least he already put on his boots; he doubted he could bend over enough to do it, now. His jacket donned, he sheathed his blade at his hip. A voice nearby startled him.

“Your hand hurts. A heartbeat. Not yours. Hammering the beat of a song in its final verse. I'm sorry." Cole said, hands gathered to fidget in front of himself. The gasp Syrillon took in turned into a series of coughs. His breath regained after a few hoarse breaths, he faced the young man.

“It’s alright, Cole,” he said, even if they both could feel the fear thrumming in his fingers.

“It’s the pieces that make the whole. You love the pieces, but you mistake them for what they make up. A home without walls; warm, welcome, but withering. This isn’t the only way.” Syrillon approached with slow, weak steps. He wrapped careful arms around the young man and pulled him into a fleeting embrace. Cole stood, limp, like he always did. Once they parted, Syrillon gave him a pat on the cheek and a little smile.

“Thank you,” he said, quiet, “for helping people. For helping me.”

“You help people, too.” Cole’s dull eyes moved back and forth on his face with recollection, “kind hands help to collect the pieces that loss sundered. Loving, lighthearted. You make them laugh to chase away the hurt. A full stomach is a tool she taught you.” Syrillon let out a quiet chuckle.

“Oh, you’ve found me out.”

“You didn’t hide it. You like to make them feel good.”

 _“Alright,”_ Syrillon hummed, “go get into your armour. Quit flattering me.”

“Inquisitor,” a gruff timbre called, growing nearer with a few heavy steps. Blackwall approached, already suited in his armor with an axe at his belt. “Good. Glad I could catch you.”

“What do you need?” Lavellan asked, sparing a tight smile. It seemed that everyone wanted to get a tiny piece of his dwindling time. It was fair, he supposed, to take their shot while it lasted. He fought past the learned unease of the other man’s presence.

“I… just wanted to invite you to a game. A friendly competition, of sorts.” He made a vague gesture to the area he had spent the days sitting in; a tucked-away corner with only a training dummy and a target for throwing knives. Syrillon’s hands paused on one of his belt fastenings, allowing a small smile to cross his lips.

“Alright,” he said, “I’ll entertain your challenge. So long as you go easy on me, of course. Eyesight’s not what it used to be.”

_“Right.”_


	10. Hasty, Heavy Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy It's Not Halloween Yet

“Syrillon.” Dorian’s voice was tight with an incoming lecture. He closed in by a few more strides, already in his gear and jingling lowly with every step. His brow stayed cinched tight, the bridge of his nose threatening to bunch up in that way it did when he had an argument perched on the tip of his tongue. Said elf, already feeling his wafting displeasure, didn’t bother to offer a smile. He’d learned well enough that _that_ would only catapult him more quickly into the oncoming argument.

“Yes, dear?” He replied, back popping as he leaned onto his elbow. The café grew more and more populated as time went on; people seemed to grow impatient with the lack of _anything_ happening in court, given his absence. Or maybe they wanted to eavesdrop as casually as possible; trying to glean even a murmur of what in the world was going on. The sun was warmer out front on the benches, however, so Syrillon left the listeners to their drinks and tiny pastries.

 _“Don’t_ endear me right now,” Dorian hissed, pointing a stiffly accusing finger towards his betrothed’s armored sternum. _“I_ just spoke with Sera. _Guess_ what I learned. Go on, guess.” His voice was rigid, every syllable a breath of gradually mounting anger. Syrillon, slowly steeping in guilt, pressed his lips tight together. He couldn’t keep his eyes on the other man’s longer than a few fleeting seconds.

“I’m guessing it’s something bad.” He murmured, careful under the hot, incensed glare.

“Well, _bravo!”_ Dorian exclaimed, though it was no louder than his normal tone. It was caustically sarcastic. “Do you know how _humiliating_ it is to know _nothing_ about what you’re feeling? To realize that I knew only as much as the others? I thought we were past this! You act like a little gremlin hoarding rubbish.” His voice dropped back to a harsh whisper and dread climbed into Syrillon’s throat.

He’d never been good at being lectured, given his history. He steadied his breaths, trying to soothe the instinct of fear rising in his gut like bile at the feeling of being steeped in trouble. This was a problem he understood, of course. It was one he’d recognized, but couldn’t bring himself to change. And now, as he’d expected, it was time for him to pay dividends for it.

Dorian was upset because he cared. He wouldn’t try to hurt him. He wouldn’t--

“Why didn’t you tell me?” The mage’s voice was weaker, now. Anger changed to despair and, once Syrillon summoned the strength to look up (which was in a rush, hearing that shift), he caught a tilt to the man’s brow which shrugged that instinctual cowardice from his shoulders. “I could’ve helped. I could’ve done _something.”_

“I was going to,” Syrillon insisted, speaking at a full-bodied whisper, urging him to understand, “I never had much of a chance. I’ve hardly had a full nights’ sleep, let alone an opportunity to speak properly with you. Believe me, Dorian, I’d never keep this from you on purpose.”

“Then how, pray tell, was _Sera_ the one to tell me?” Dorian shrank with a sigh, the heel of his palm pressing to his bridge, “why is it I always need to find out how you feel through others? _Especially_ her! She doesn’t have a discreet bone in her body when it comes to other people’s problems.”

“I know. That’s unfair of me, and I should have told you sooner. But I can’t control what other people know, or how they know it.” Another weak sigh from the mage and Syrillon though he might crumble to little pieces. It grew to be more of a task, simply sitting up in his armor, the longer they spoke. He could feel his patience growing thin; the tempting burn of a harsher temper growing more and more appealing. He just wanted the talk to be over, childishly or not.

“Yes, Maker forbid you attempt to organize your information. What a terrible impossibility, _o Inquisitor.”_ Now, he was just being mean. He was right, obviously, but it didn’t make it sting any less. The council was full to the brim with Syrillon’s biggest critics; of those he _hadn’t_ expected to add to the aspersion, it would’ve been his own partner. Jaw clenching tight for a long moment, he willed his anger to quell itself. He didn’t need to say something he would regret.

“Look,” Syrillon replied, spitting it like a curse, “if you’re going to censure me, you can join the rest of the rabble. I don’t need this.” He struggled to aching feet, choosing to pretend like he wasn’t wobbling. “We leave in another half-hour. Come, or don’t. It’s up to you.”

“Syrillon--”

“No, please. Treat me like Lavellan. Maybe then you won’t lambaste me over doing my best while feeling like I’m already one foot in the grave.” Dorian’s expression warped between surprise and hurt disbelief.

“I’m sorry, I hadn’t realized that being concerned for your well-being was suddenly so _reprehensible!_ I’ll be sure to refrain.” Now a few short paces away, they both stood with hands gripped into fists.

“Consider it an order, then.” Dorian paused, openly balking for a moment. There were a few mute shifts in his posture, a concise selection of words clearly on the tip of his tongue. _What’s gotten into you?_ Perhaps, or _have you gone completely mad?_

Syrillon had never once _ordered_ him to do something outside of battle. Every other Inquisition-related task was assigned by one of his advisors; it made things easier that way. It, for the most part, made their partnership--marriage, technically, though the both of them were unusually chaste about referring to it as such--between two equals. As any _should_ be. Dorian only blinked, lips open as he took a moment to verify that he’d _really_ just said that.

“Well,” he murmured, the furrow in his brow maintained, “if we’re making rash statements, I suppose mine will be that you’re acting like an incredible ass.” Stubbornly, Syrillon crossed his arms over his chest and kept his expression tight and stern. Dorian let out a tight sigh before he continued, his brow softening ever so slightly. “But I care dearly for you and if what people are saying _is_ true, I’m still coming along.”

Syrillon’s posture deflated with a weak sigh of his own, his eyes dropping to the ground just beside the mage’s pointed boots. There was a small, despaired once-over he missed, in his avoidance, before Dorian was stalking away to waste away their twenty-something minute wait in other company. Left alone, Syrillon squeezed his eyes shut and ran a too-harsh hand through his hair. Brief, short-lived anger flared in his stomach, but it was gone as soon as he slumped back onto the café bench.

-

Nine pairs of boots crossed the threshold of the eluvian; traipsing into more vacant, aimless air. Nothing seemed to move in the Crossroads. Like a hermetic chamber; no wind, no clouds, no night. It was eternal and cold to the touch, like the embrace of the elvhen who first made use of it. Their steps echoed on forever, Syrillon at their head, and they approached their final doorway.

His mind wandered with each step, though his expression stayed grim against the pain already growing in his extremities. He should write to his siblings. He should’ve _written_ to his siblings, in any of the short ten-minute breaks he’d accrued between outings to tear apart his own mental and emotional health. Too many things and too little time, apparently. Or, rather, too many thoughts. How would they know all that had happened, over only these few days? Would their only news be in the form of a too-polite, too-rigid letter from his diplomat? A fruit basket? _Here’s something to snack on while you mourn the abrupt loss of your youngest brother. You know the one._

Cassandra marched stubbornly at his side, undeterred by his upwards trend of relative crabbiness. Varric lingered a few steps behind, in line with Vivienne and the other clustered rogues. Bull kept to their flank. Dorian must’ve been near the back, as well, but Syrillon hadn’t checked anytime recently. The mage wasn’t speaking especially loudly, anyway.

“How are your hands, there?” Blackwall asked, walking at Syrillon’s opposite side from the Seeker. He made a gesture for where meager bandaging sat, hidden, beneath the elf’s leather gloves. At the question, they stuffed themselves into pockets.

“Fine now. You worried you’ll be asked to pay reparations?”

“Had I known you’d fumble every dagger, I’d have invited you to compete at something else. Drinking, maybe.”

“I’d probably cut myself on a tankard. Done it before.”

“If the both of you came along while entirely wasted, I’m sure we would all have a few choice words.” Cassandra piped up, a rarely perky tilt to her lips. The easy banter seemed to wipe off that grim-looking stare, if only for the moment.

“Like _why wasn’t I invited?”_ Syrillon tried. Cassandra let out a sound that might’ve been a laugh. One by one, they stepped through the eluvian. The Seeker went first, ensuring safety. Then, as Syrillon entered, she offered him a hand to keep his steps even.

It was nighttime here. The party only discovered it when they stepped out of the cover of a wood and stone building--storage, perhaps?--and into the cool evening. Fires burned along the perimeter of the empty cobbled walkway. Distantly, there were sounds of what might’ve been battle, in a tone that (with a great deal of recent practice), could be picked out as qunlat. For now, however, the world around them was a distant sea of inky black. Wind whistled over their heads and through the parapets lining where they walked. If he tried hard enough, Syrillon could hear the ocean. Though, that could have just been the blood rushing in his ears.

“Smell that?” Iron Bull piped up from the back. It might’ve been a murmur to someone else, but in the silence, it laid itself out for anyone in the party to hear. They paused, as a collective, to try and catch whatever he referred to as it passed on another gust of wind. Spice, maybe. Smoke.

“The pain is raw where they left it. They shackle power with iron fists and worry, wondering, if it’s enough. You’ll set them free. You did, when it was him.” Cole said, picking at his grimy nails as they moved in clusters up a set of shallow stairs. The foreboding statement hung in the air even as they ascended away from it.

At the landing, a group of qunari sprung to attention. Syrillon, herded behind Blackwall’s broad, armored back, kept a dagger in hand. The rest of the party passed them like a wave washing through to clear the threat away. There was a thundering, distantly, even though the black sky stayed clear above. The party broke through into another building where the heavy, resinous smell of pine seeped into the air. Stacks of softwood barrels lined corners and broke up the space, some of them already chipped and smashed.

Notes of import were collected and tucked away for safekeeping in someone-or-other’s pockets. Carefully, the group of nine slipped, partly broken, into a larger chamber. The air was astringent and hot, like sitting too close to a campfire. A bellowed roar broke through the air and a dragon, wounded and wailing, thrashed its head in the air, making itself clear. Unnatural copper marred its otherwise green-yellow scales, seeping out from half-healed gashes along its sides. Torches along the ground threatened its whitish underbelly from all angles.

“Oh. Well, shit.” Varric murmured, breaking the stunned silence. A few antaam, startled out of their dragon-herding, rushed to defend their infiltrated building. Syrillon, once again, was pushed nearer their back.

“I suppose the Maker has finally delivered,” Cassandra called back to him, blade unsheathed and shield raised as she descended one set of stairs two at a time.

“It’s about damn time!” The Inquisitor replied. The Iron Bull covered his left side, while Dorian stood a few paces away to his right. The mage still stubbornly kept his business-casual affectation and avoided all eye-contact.

“Ben-hassrath!” The Viddasala, suddenly so much louder in an enclosed space, had appeared atop an isolated balcony. She gripped the banister, looking down upon the Iron Bull with wide, urging eyes. An arrow came sailing for her head, which she only barely dodged. The fight with the antaam continued strides away at the dual staircase. “Hissrad, we need you! Please!”

Bull spared a small, barely-there glance over his shoulder to where Syrillon stood, huddled at his back; weak and wilted, entirely defenseless save for the well-wielded knife in his palm. That, against the massive wall of a qunari. Pitiful, really.


	11. A Portent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get Real Real next chapter.... happy halloween btw, stay safe

The dragon took off with a resounding roar once it ran the twenty-something foot length of the rampart and trampled (or otherwise swatted away) every soldier in its path. The flapping of massive wings and a final, almost thankful-seeming bellow bode, the dragon disappeared into the black night. Its silhouette cast a shadow over the waxing moon above and then faded completely, finally freed.

“Words like a whip. An old name burns like a broken dreadnought. The Iron Bull, you're hurt.” Cole piped up, one of the few not left panting after the battle drew itself to a close.

“I should hope not. He hardly lifted a finger.” Vivienne murmured, mostly to herself.

“The Iron Bull is just fine. When this is over, drinks are on me. Probably a lot of 'em.” He said, pretending he hadn’t heard the jab and leaving the enchanter to be snide all on her own.

“I like that idea.” Syrillon chimed, giving the qunari a small slap on the arm. Blackwall and Cassandra (though it was moreso the latter), took up point and started up their march once again. Iron Bull gave the elf a casual, rowdy ruffle of his already messy hair and then clapped a passing  _ massive  _ hand on his shoulder; lighter than he normally would, considering it would knock the elf off-balance.

“Inquisition!” The Viddasala called, a vague shape at the end of the rampart due to both encroaching darkness and the soldiers clustered near her, a number of them already slipping through an eluvian. The distance shrank, little by little, with Syrillon now at their head. “Do you even  _ understand  _ what you’re toiling with? What sort of disaster we are working to prevent?”

“I probably would if you tried to be less reticent.” Syrillon replied, giving a little stretch, as if to say:  _ I’m so unthreatened, I think I might just curl up for a nap.  _ That was one he’d learnt from watching Vivienne; though he’d hardly ever seen her do something so uncouth as  _ stretching,  _ in particular.

“This agent of Fen’harel manipulates and schemes. How far his reach spreads within your Inquisition, we can only guess. He has betrayed your good will for his own purposes and now, you, too, will pay.”

“Alright, I’ll bite. Is it someone I know?”

“The elf mage; the one you call Solas. You’ve been fooled, Inquisitor. He has made you into a pawn for a greater game.  _ We  _ are righting this mistake you’ve made.” Syrillon paused, lips parted, another snippy reply on the tip of his tongue. In his faltering, the Viddasala slipped through the eluvian, leaving the nighttime fortress behind.

Solas. Solas? It seemed like such an odd red herring--a seed of doubt; some sort of mind game. But… what good would come from the lie?

Another twinge of the anchor had him taking in a hiss of breath and, before he could help it, he was grabbing at his marked palm to massage away the hurt. A familiar hand gripped at his shoulder and he glanced up, brows pulled tight in despaired confusion.

“We must continue,” Cassandra said, quiet, “are you able to proceed?” Blinking away the incoming foggy haze of too-little sleep and all the questions now bubbling to the surface, Syrillon offered a hesitant nod.

“Let’s finish this.”

-

He was thankful he had just enough energy left to expend so he might make a haphazard jump and tumble away from his party members and into a shallow, marshy bog before the anchor discharged itself and sent out another shockwave of magic. Rotten mud clung to his arms and boots. He could feel some smeared on his cheek, as well, and when he went to swipe it away he felt his skin flushed hot with fever he hadn’t noticed.

The mud squashed underfoot as he worked to pull himself out, though the sludge still ardently resisted his wants. He gave his boot one good yank and, Maker be praised, he didn’t lose the article to the mire. He paused, resting on hands and knees and breathing hard despite the otherwise lacking effort. His hands were already smeared with black and he kept his eyes on them as he rose, one shaky leg at a time.

The Viddasala’s voice was a confusing sound he couldn’t quite make out over the clamour of battle. With some dull realization--his head stuffed so full of cotton he could barely think--he found she was speaking qunlat. He stumbled back towards Blackwall, the nearest of his party, who had endeavored to close in on Syrillon’s side of the field to act as his cover once more. He was in a fight, now; trying to juggle their Inquisitor's life with his own. He seemed evenly matched, for the most part. Stagnant and beaten.

Syrillon attempted a small flame in the palm of his hand. What would’ve been a simple spell quickly asserted itself as a very  _ bad  _ idea. The anchor spat tiny greenish sparks and the fire in his other hand, spurred on, crept--undeterred by his natural control--up the length of his arm. As if the mark had stolen his hold on it, his own fire began searing into the thick leather of his vambrace. Like a too-risky game of  hot potato,  Syrillon did his best to fling the spell at the antaam who now threatened Blackwall's trapped leg with a knock from a very large warhammer.

The fire he unleashed was white-hot and it burned a precise hole into the bare space on the soldier’s shoulderblade. Like a hungry mouth, it sank into his skin and left a glistening, gruesome mess behind. His hammer, which had been raised to strike, abruptly fell from his grasp. The haft knocked the side of his head, splitting his flesh beneath his helmet, and he crumbled to the ground from the impact. Syrillon, tamping out the fire still licking at his arms, looked the downed qunari over in dopey surprise. Blackwall struggled to his feet, now freed.

“Thanks.” The warrior grunted, locking eyes with the startled-seeming Inquisitor from behind his sweaty, grimy brow. He gave the elf's seared arm a silently disturbed once-over before he jerked his head in the direction of the other party members. Thankfully, he didn't go so far as to pose a proper question. A simple respect from a simple man; one Syrillon greatly appreciated, given he had no answer for whatever that question would’ve been.

The Viddasala’s bellowing voice had long since faded from the battlefield. Syrillon only noticed when a set of thundering steps took its place. A massive, hulking saarebas took to the path ahead of the only barely-healed party. A choir of weapons unsheathed was their greeting, but this imposing monster of a qunari saved his gaze for the Inquisitor tucked away so safely near their flank. Like a hawk focused on its prey. Syrillon barely whispered an  _ awh, fuck,  _ before the mage came thumping towards him. A number of antaam also emerged; just enough to be a nuisance. Like usual.

The others, occupied as they were with staying alive under fire, could do little to stop the saarebas in his advance. He took arrows to his body and head, bolts to the gaps in his armor, lashes of fire to his grey-blue skin. Cole attempted to land a few slashes to his back. One quick smack from the mage’s hand--as if shooing away an insect--had the young man falling away in a rough tumble. All Syrillon could do was stand and wait, quivering under the weight of his own armor. He didn’t have the energy to do the latter, however, so he resigned himself to what would probably be a great deal of pain.

Blackwall stood his ground for all he was worth. He pushed his Inquisitor to stand back a few scant feet and then raised his shield. From behind it, he stared down that encroaching beast with a look that might’ve passed as heroic, if not for all the grime.

Syrillon wasn’t sure how, precisely, it had happened. Between his too-slow mind and his too-groggy body, it all seemed to play out in slow motion: a spell of some kind--electricity, he knew; he was familiar with that crackle in the air--and, with hands free, the saarebas landed a hit to his abdomen. He’d barely wound up to do it, but Syrillon could feel a cracking before the pain started. The qunari's hand, like a club, yanked the breath out from his chest and replaced it with a hollow, seizing gasp. It was like taking a battering ram to his ribcage. The world passed in a haze and then it spun in equal measure. Then, it stopped abruptly to leave him reeling but still.

He couldn't breathe.

Why couldn't he breathe?

A familiar set of gilded, smooth horns, so unlike the qunari; these were meant for a game so different but so similar to that of  _ raw intimidation.  _ A cold, but still gentle hand briefly met his cheek and then a soft blue-green glow of a spell cast. The pain was tugged, gently, from his grasp. A few quiet, soothing words and then that cold hand laid against his forehead.

“It’s alright, darling. We’ll get you back on your feet.” Her cool voice sounded like he was underwater. He managed a choked sound against the ebbing pain in his chest. It was strange, to see a woman so accustomed to a colder disposition acting somewhere near  _ maternal.  _ Caring, even, if he wanted to split hairs. It stirred something uncomfortable; like a bitter longing, deep in his gut. She'd hate to hear it, knowing her.

He squeezed his eyes shut and focused on the pain as it cleared away. His ribs, healed just as quickly as they cracked apart. A headache he hadn’t noticed and the consistent throbbing in his legs. His splinted wrist objected--like letting out a whine--at the too-swift healing.  All his pain, collected carefully in a basket and tossed away. He opened his eyes and let out a breath that sounded too close to a death rattle. Vivienne looked away from her work to instead assess the battlefield; the saarebas’s steps came to an abrupt end, but not so much in a way that heralded death. It would be an ongoing fight, then. Joy.

Someone hauled him to his feet, just when he’d grown used to the feeling of the ground to steady him. Cassandra took up his more injured arm and looped it around her shoulder to ensure he could continue walking, though the enchanter’s work had left him feeling better than he had even hours earlier.

“We’re nearly there,” she said under her breath, like a mantra between them both. “I can feel it, now. Hold on a little longer.”

“Better than the alternative.” Syrillon hissed past his teeth, eyes drooping.


	12. Whittled, Weak

Every step seemed to grow heavier, like he was sinking in the mud. Blackwall had since graduated to becoming his main support; leaving Cassandra to command the group and keep them all moving firmly onward. The steps blurred together and Syrillon, who had busied himself in his pain by counting those paces, grew groggier. Places and enemies all seemed the same; like four, five or six battles were all a single fight allowed to go on for hours.

Cassandra would purge the field. The Iron Bull would let out a war cry, down two to three, then take a bad hit. Vivienne would strike with her enchanted weapon, then bring the qunari mercenary back to his feet. Dorian brought out lashes of fire and lightning. Cole was everywhere and nowhere, too quick for Syrillon to pay attention. All of them like players on the stage, rereading their cues over and over and over--

There was a whistling through the air: soft, against the clamour but so, so loud with the rush of _panic_ to aid its voice. Then, his support vanished. Blackwall fumbled his grip, letting him fall. The warrior keeled, calling out for aid; an arrow wedged into a tender spot. Syrillon scrambled back on his hands and grubby, scraped knees as the anchor worked up to another discharge. He only stopped his struggle when he was a number of strides away; ten, perhaps, though it felt more like fifty when he could barely crawl. He slumped, drained, and allowed the mark to ravage his body with another heavy pulse of magic.

Was it minutes? Seconds? He unfurled and tried to right himself. The battlefield still swarmed, a small perimeter cleared around him with the Anchor’s help. It was slowly dwindling. He struggled to his feet, his blade in hand, too weak to defend but without other options. Blackwall was still downed. One of the antaam marched closer, their own sword a wordless (but very loud) threat. They were easily three heads taller than him if he’d have been able to stand up straight. Almost four, as it was.

He took in a deep breath and pushed through his fatiguing pain. He managed a few swift slashes to their blocking arm; enough to draw flat rivulets of blood against their blue-grey skin. In a last effort to ruin what could be a fatal strike, he plunged the short blade into the pit of their arm and hoped for the best.

The blade pommel hit hard against his face, his body too slow to counter. He could only make a weak dodge, though that did little to protect him. With luck, he’d keep his teeth, at least. His tongue was steeped in the familiar stannic taste of blood as he crumbled, rolling out the follow-through.

He lay on his back now. The smooth blue sky faded in and out of view above him. It was unnervingly peaceful; painted with orange-tinted clouds, only conspiratory whispers of oncoming dusk. He choked, either on his own spit or blood, and keeled onto his side. The silence pounded on his ears until he realized it was his heart he heard beating inside his head. The moment stretched, unusually long compared to those which had come before. The sound of battle was white noise, now, along with the cries of his comrades. He spat out a mouthful of sick red onto the dirty, ruined ground and took in a ragged gasp for air.

Something--someone--shook the ground beneath his fingers as they clawed at the shaggy dirt. His hazy mind couldn’t recognize the sound of their steps nor their armor, or make out whatever someone else barked at him in qunlat. A hand fisted his hair, plucking him up by his scalp to sit haphazardly on his knees. He let out a weak, ragged cry and reached for their hand, unable to unwork even one finger. He was caught between pain-shocked adrenaline and the weight of utter exhaustion. Shaking from the searing in his hairline, his eyes drooped, protesting consciousness, and even these were too great of feats for his weakened body.

There was a cry for him, somewhere, but it was distant; lost in the clamour and the dizziness of his world. It was enough to force Syrillon’s hazy eyes open between ragged, stunted breaths. There was a pause; his captor still held tight to his hair, but they did not yet act. A spell cast light a threat but it was far from a killing blow. His knife stayed wedged somewhere, or else lain out on the ground; he couldn't be sure. _Idiot!_ He cursed himself, teeth grit tight against the dizzyingly searing pain in his hairline, _who only packs a single blade?_

Seconds. He had seconds before that familiar crackle of fade-spawned electricity turned towards his flesh and he was rendered into a handsome pile of viscera.

Clumsily, he stuck two grubby fingers into his mouth, too tired to wince at the bitter taste. He coated them with blood and spit and then, quickly as was manageable, he smeared the first rune he could think of onto his captor’s arm. He slapped his bloodied hand in the centre of it, calling it to life, and at once his hair was released. He crumbled once again on the hard ground, arms too weak to catch himself. He watched, body limp and jaw slack with his stunted gasps, as the qunari was eviscerated.

White-hot lashes of flame coiled out from the rune and they stumbled back: one, two, three steps. They wailed, calling for help or perhaps for a swifter end, as the fire ate into their armor and seared their ashy grey skin to soot. Even from twenty paces, the fire was hot and dry on his face. It crackled and hissed, using his blood as a fuel unlike any other. Another qunari caught aflame. Then another. And another. The lattermost still needed to be strung through with a blade to go down.

The Anchor flickered and sparked alongside the fire, inciting the spell to burn hotter and fatter with rage. In a too-familiar way, it drew more and more mana from him until his well ran entirely dry and it was all he could do to curl up and attempt to restrain the mark by force. Still, it kept on until the bodies were only ash and the fire had nothing left to eat at.

Coupled with the intoxicating hum of blood magic, he was caught between the need to stop and the sickly urge to continue pouring himself into it. Then, when the Anchor’s light quieted, the pain returned. It spread through his veins, pricking beneath his fingernails and up into his chest. It throbbed on and off and, like nails hammered into his skull, it spread along his jaw and into his temple. It crouched behind his eye and his vision wavered for a few long moments, the colours mottled. He couldn’t tell just how loud he was, letting out gasps and groans of pain. He was left in a wound-up ball, weak and whining, fingers pressing bruises into his scarred arm and letting out guttural, pained noises from his chest. Like trying to strangle away the pain.

Gentle hands turned him onto his back. There were a number of them; soothing over his cheeks and forehead, where new, rough-cut scars now lay. Over his chest and arms, prodding him for injury and quite carefully peeling away his armor in the post-battle quiet. He had grown used to his stunted, too-short breaths and only realized the pain when it was taken from him by the last pair of hands. Steadily, his breathing grew more unrestrained to the point where he could make out the faces surrounding him. One thought stayed firmly on his mind in the flurry.

“Dorian,” he murmured, voice strained. A hand squeezed his and a more familiar palette of darker hair and burgundy robes was close to his side.

“I’m here, amatus.” He replied, that horrible breathless worry in his voice.

“Are you alright?” Syrillon choked out, giving the mage’s hand a weak squeeze.

“Always.” It was forcefully carefree. Carefully, a draught pressed to his lips. Someone elevated his head as they made him drink more and more of their healing potions just to summon the strength to stand.

“That was…” someone murmured, trailing off. “...That was blood magic, wasn’t it?”

“Who gives a nut what it was?” _That_ was definitely Sera. “He’s not dead, right? He’s gonna come back?”

“He’ll be alright, buttercup. C’mon, let’s give him some space.” Syrillon’s groggy vision cleared and the shape he knew to be Dorian held his arm close, his knuckles pressed tight against lips.

“Do you have any lyrium?” Vivienne asked, sounding like business. There was a stuttering pause.

“Ah, yes,” Dorian replied after a moment. There was a shuffling, then a dull blue glow. It lifted towards Syrillon’s lips, which he obediently parted. What little taste he made out was bitter and unpleasant. He summoned his strength to let out a vague sound of disgust, earning a weak, barely-there laugh.

“Good to know you’re well enough to complain.” The potion left his lips and he swallowed down the rest of the odd mixture.

“Like usual.” He rasped. Hands came back to his arms and torso and he was lifted, carefully, to his feet. As soon as he was left to stand on his own, however, his legs shook like they were shivering.

“There will be much to discuss when we return to the Palace.” Cassandra said, addressing someone else, her tone grim. Syrillon took in a harsh breath and still leaning heavily, scanned to see the Seeker. He was drooping from the arms that held him, blood caking his head and mouth, looking halfway to unhinged.

“I did what I had to do.” He spat, even if it had been accidental eavesdropping, “had you been more efficient, it wouldn’t have come to it.” It didn’t feel entirely true even as it passed his lips, but he couldn’t stop himself. Honest guilt and hurt warred together with anger in her expression and it made his chest ache, but that pain pushed it out. The same as any other kinder, more high-energy emotion. Cruelty was easy, with the pain.

“There is _no_ excuse for blood magic.”

“Then you can fuck off out'f here.” He replied sharply, even as his words jumbled, “keep it to yourself. I don’t need your judgement.” Her fists clenched tight enough to make the leather of her gloves squeak. She steeled her expression past the mounting hurt and gave a coolly obedient nod. The rest of the party, huddled around, clammed up. Wide-eyed, silent looks were exchanged. No one attempted to speak in her defense. Not yet. Not now.

“Of course, Inquisitor.” She said, a spiteful whisper, and a large hand at Syrillon’s shoulder made him turn from where he stood parallel, bristling. The Iron Bull led him, now, acting as both a handler and a support. The party, keeping their quiet, continued on.

-

It wasn’t long before they came to another open courtyard and its regular cluster of antaam. The viddasala was visible, now, as she slipped through another eluvian. It seemed they were closing in. Though it seemed far more precarious (and had more of a splash zone), standing behind the Iron Bull was a surefire way to get the quickest and cleanest line cut through the battlefield. Antaam littered the ground, limbs hacked away or entire torsos cleaved in two.

It seemed like an easy victory. Like their job would end, soon, and their day wrapped up. They were nearly fifteen paces from the eluvian now, and their goal was firmly within their sights. Then, from across the field, there was a cry for help. Dorian and Vivienne grew quickly overwhelmed. Their rogues were being wiped out and only their warriors stood strong. One seconds’ delay and now Dorian needed backup. Vivienne summoned her spectral weapons and did all she could against three, four qunari. A claymore shattered her barrier from the back.

“Go, help them,” Syrillon ordered, giving Bull a push to his arm that hardly moved him an inch.

“Boss--” Bull started, insistent. Without anyone to guard him, their Inquisitor could be picked off. Left to resort to crueler measures as he already had once before. Measures that none of the party was very excited to see; _especially_ the one who was meant to be guarding him. If Bull left him, he could die. Easy. If he didn’t?

“Well, we could always…” Syrillon glanced back at the eluvian. Fifteen paces. Twenty, maybe thirty seconds, given his weak legs. He could make it, but there were archers they had yet to pick off. Blackwall let out a cry as a blade slashed deep enough to draw a thick stream of blood. Only Cassandra was left to back him up. The party was running out of time.

Syrillon looked back to the qunari, making a vague gesture. The Iron Bull, quickly deliberating, gave a gruff nod.

“Please be gentle,” the elf requested.

“No promises.” Bull took up fistfuls of cloth and armor--the back of a collar, the loose fabric of a sleeve--and hoisted the Inquisitor up in a none-too-graceful fashion. Then, with a loud grunt, tossed him as hard as he could. Syrillon sailed straight for the eluvian, arms around his head as a protective shell as he came barreling through. He landed, smacking his side too roughly and letting out a pained grunt. He rolled a few more feet only to come to an abrupt stop. He unfurled his arms.

The silhouette of a qunari, ready to strike, had him rolling quickly away. When he climbed to his feet, however, he stumbled back-to-back with another of the antaam. They didn’t budge. Rather, when he whirled to look around the new battlefield--past the eluvian, evidently, which had sealed behind him--every warrior stayed frozen in time. Once he blocked the newly glaring sunlight from his eyes, he could make out more: their skin, eyes--most of which laid open, along with mouths set in a silent war cry--and their fingers, even their blades. They were stone. Not so much a layer (like whitish mud baked on in hot sunlight) but like they were carved from it. As if they’d always been that way; lain out in a silent battlefield and facing each and every direction.

He inspected them, morbidly curious, and leaned in close to one of their snarling faces. Was there flesh inside, or had they been turned through and through? This must’ve been magic. Syrillon looked down at himself; no stone to be found. Not a rune, then. Lucky him. He studied the wide-open eyes of a rogue, half expecting their lips to move and for them to let out a sound. When someone else--some distance away--began speaking, he was startled enough to stumble away.

Qunlat. It sounded like the viddasala. He followed a pathway marked by more and more frozen soldiers, using them like a sort of avant-garde banister. He reached a hill, not quite at the crest, and watched as the viddasala--it _was_ her, he confirmed with some small effort--attempted to throw a spear at a stranger a short distance away. In a blink, she, too, froze in place. The spear had only barely lifted from her palm.

“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it.” The stranger said. Syrillon, startled, perked up. He stepped out from behind the meager cover of the stone-carved warrior and closed in a few tentative paces, his heart in his throat. Would this be the end for him, too?

“I’m pleased to see that wasn’t the case.” They turned, their armor catching the late-day sun in a blinding show. Hands gathered at their back, Syrillon could barely make out their polite, bittersweet smile.

“Solas.” He greeted, taking a short step forward. Something about him made the anchor stir. In a too-familiar way, it cut a line of sharp pain up the length of his arm, where it would sit inside his elbow. Letting out a hiss from behind his teeth, Syrillon gripped at his marked arm and willed the pain to pass, even as it grew. Solas only watched as he fell to his knees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whaaat


	13. Dying Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yo why did it cut to black after solas fucking eviscerates PC's arm?? booo
> 
> That being said: TW for some description of arms getting totally fucked up. That's it, that's the chapter.

Before, the anchor’s discharging had been a temporary relief from the constant ache. That soothing feeling, gradually enough to be unnoticeable, had whittled down in the hours he was awake. What had been minutes of relative comfort was now seconds. Then, nothing at all. A pause between discharges was the build-up to another. It was as if the anchor was being tugged free--and, in a final panic to leave its mark on him--worked tirelessly to scar his soul with deep, ravaging cuts. 

Solas tilted his head, like a look of pity one might reserve for a wounded animal, and with a silent spell soothed the anchor’s fighting. Syrillon, startled by the sudden freedom to think and to move without dizzying pain, took a few seconds. Then, he climbed to uneasy feet.

“Thank you.” He said, flinching, as if the hurt would return any second. He let out a stunted breath of relief. There was a polite nod. “So. It’s... been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Truly? It feels like yesterday.”

“To you, maybe. Nice outfit.” Solas scoffed something like a laugh.

“I should have known you would be inappropriately casual. It suits you.” Syrillon, giving a startling _real_ smile, approached with ambling steps. Solas waved for him to follow along a winding, messy path. “I suspect you have questions.”

“Yeah, a couple. Say, in the fade--in the Vir Dirthara--did you paint those murals?” Syrillon asked first, fond suspicion in his voice. It was so easy to forget… all of it. The pain he’d been through and all the insistent, desperate questions he’d stayed up at night puzzling over. Exhaustion would wash over him and he would waver between awake and asleep; alive and dead, floating through what felt like the penultimate hours of his pitiful lifetime. _Would the war end with me?_ or, _what lies beyond this?_ or, _how will I win?_ At least, this time, the _great evil_ he faced at the end of his road was someone he could have a polite chat with. It was a pleasant change.

“They are beautiful, are they not?” Solas’s look was knowing, neither confirming nor denying the question. They came to stand at the edge of a grassy cliff, looking out on a long-abandoned ruin; a towering castle. Syrillon let out a hum of agreement, biting back something unsuitably snarky, given the setting.

“I thought of you when I saw them,” he replied, “I missed you. Your stories.”

“They aren’t mine.” It was a quiet, solemn murmur. Silence fell between them as they looked out on the empty world.

“So…” Syrillon started again, “explain this Dread Wolf business to me.”

“Of course, Inquisitor,” it was a wry joke but an agreement nonetheless. “You have no doubt seen the stories. They are too kind. Too biased, just as all legends are.”

“Figures.”

“But… I am not the man painted by those legends or the monster your people claim me to be.” Syrillon let out a breath of a laugh, thinking back on that home which now lay worlds away.

“Solas came first. The Dread Wolf was a title I grew to accept; It inspired hope in my friends and fear in my enemies. Not unlike _Inquisitor,_ I suppose.” Solas turned his gaze from the landscape to the profile of the elf standing beside him. “And… I, too, know the burden of a title which all but replaces your name.”

A passing smile took up residence briefly on the Inquisitor’s expression before he nodded. That was a burden--the _only_ burden--he’d accepted willingly, of all those which had been thrust upon him. He kept his hands in his pockets even as his heart sank into his gut.

“So, you’re a living god. Good to know. What comes next?” Solas managed a bittersweet smile at the carefree, flippant line of questioning.

“I do what I must. What I couldn’t. _You_ will live your remaining years in relative peace, drinking terrible wine and worrying about things you cannot control.”

“Well, that’s a bit rude.”

“It’s simply prophetic,” Solas barely gave a dismissive wave, “if… there’s anything you should know, it is that I do not take this duty with any measure of joy. I am not Corypheus. It is why I pushed the dying qunari into the Winter Palace; why I lured you into all of this.”

“Old god _and_ a meddler. Classic.” Syrillon picked at the black dirt under his fingernails, ignoring that aching worry stirring in his gut. 

“Thedas, as well as yourself, have earned a few years of relative peace. If I am to tear apart this world, I would do it while they live in comfort.”

“Sounds a bit more cruel, by comparison, but what do I know.” Syrillon murmured. Then, after a beat, he let out a weak sigh. “I’ll have to stop you, you know.”

“I know.” It was quiet. Resigned.

“It was good to see you again.” Syrillon said instead, a small smile in his voice. “The mages would throw a fit, seeing your outfit. You spent a year and a half wearing earth tones and _now_ is when you pull this out?”

“Yes, I am sure you’re right.” Solas strode away, his hands gathered behind his back. Once he turned to face the Inquisitor again, his expression was a tight, poorly-masked look of guilt. “I cannot heal your scars, but I will remove the anchor. To give you time without the pain.”

Syrillon gave a mute nod and looked down at his marked hand, keeping to where he stood. The anchor had burned through his glove, now, but the skin beneath nearly matched the black hue. He murmured a quiet _“right,”_ before looking back up to the old friend standing before him. A broad eluvian at his back cast him in a bluish glow, making him into a vague but gleaming silhouette.

“I would’ve died for you. Do you remember?” He still dreamed of it, some nights. The fall. Seeing his companions shrink to a little dot as he descended through the air at a speed fast enough to force his eyes closed and the breath out of his lungs. He couldn’t kill gravity; there was no fighting that fear. Solas’s lips pulled into a harsher frown.

“Yes.”

“I still would.” It was a quiet, bitter laugh. At himself, most of all, for his useless attachment. How he so easily put his trust into others; carelessly, it seemed, and was entirely unable to take it back once he'd been thoroughly spurned. He wasn't surprised to find himself weak once more. Solas’s lips parted in his growing look of despair, but he didn’t voice his thoughts.

“Live well,” he said instead, “while time remains.” He reached out a hand, beckoning, and the anchor came to life once more. Like crushing its magic in his fist, Solas made a small gesture and the pain continued to climb.

Syrillon's knees gave out beneath him, cracking along the dirty, rocky ground. The fingers of his good hand pressed in at his elbow, digging in hard enough to taint the skin in shades of indigo and brown. He laboured, desperate but useless, to make a bottleneck for the pain. It wasn't enough for what he saw. His skin singed and burned in the palm of his own hand, dripping and sparking with greenish energy. Like scooping up a fistful of embers, he held his own crackling flesh in his grasp until that, too, turned to nothing. The pain whited out his vision and stopped his breaths coming in fast enough. He screamed, because his mind told him he had to, even as the pain turned to heavy numbness.

The smell of the fade came all at once--rank urea, rot, animal sweat--all of it; cloying, unpleasant and sour. It pressed in on him in a wave and made his vision blank from the intensity. He might’ve heaved if he had the energy. He coughed and choked on the ruined air and the burning as it slipped inside his lungs with every newly ragged breath. He curled up on his side as the anchor flayed each and every layer of flesh for him to see. It was like a nightmare; a grotesque show of his own body eroding away by a phantom force. It happened too quickly for his arm to remember to bleed. It was only raw muscle, then tendon, then bone.

His voice grew raw from his screaming until he couldn’t tell whether he was making noise anymore. It was drowned out by the thundering of his heart in his ears. He needed to claw at his skin. He needed it to be over. The burning heat crawled up his arm and into his shoulder. Involuntarily, his eyes rolled to look up at the bluish sky and, in a blink, his vision went white.

-

“Looks like I take this game,” Yevan, dripping with bravado, scooped the small pile of rationed seed crackers towards his end of the table. Syrillon sat back in his seat with a defeated slump, arms crossing over his chest.

“You win _every_ time.” He complained, watching with a boyish pout as his elder brother crunched on a mouthful of the sweet snack. Syrillon looked to his sister across the table, beseeching her with complaining eyes to do _something_ about it. She offered a shrug and a small smile.

“Maybe you just need to practice,” she said, perfectly reassuring.

“But I already practice every day!” Syrillon threw his hands up and let out a pathetic sound of defeat. Yevan only let out a bragging laugh past his full mouth, dribbling out a few dry crumbs.

“You can try giving up,” he advised, “you’d be good at it.”

“Leave me alone, you look disgusting.” Syrillon whined, brushing his brother’s bullying off with a dismissive wave.

“Least I don’t look like a loser,” Yevan replied, stuffing another cracker into his mouth.

“Least I don’t spit when I talk.”

“Least _I_ weigh more than a bag of cabbages.”

“Least--”

“--could the both of you relax? You’re scaring away the birds.” At their sister’s instruction, their mouths both snapped shut. Syrillon’s lips closed to a pout, his scrawny arms once again crossed over his hollow chest. He looked away and stuck up his nose as Yevan offered a cracker in a silent peace agreement. Once his brother had looked away, however, Syrillon snatched up the treat and popped it into his mouth.

“Are we going down to the river today?” Yevan asked once he’d swallowed down his prize. “Need to work on my fishing arm.”

“You need to work on both your arms,” Syrillon murmured, spiteful, “they’re like slugs.”

“Yes, I’m sure we can.” Valaril replied, cutting off another argument before it could start. “Make sure you take your bag this time--”

“-- _Yes,_ I know. I will.” Yevan whined.

“If it’s anything like last time, you’ll need it. How you get so soaked is a mystery.” Syrillon perked up and let out a boyish giggle now that the teasing had shifted to his brother.

“Maybe we’ll see Emith this time, too. And she can watch your ears turn red when we tell her about how bad you are at fishing again.” He jabbed, his posture livened by his snarky grin.

“Shut up.” Yevan said sharply, though it only earned a raucous laugh at his expense. Valaril, pushing down a smile, stayed out of the teasing. The young summer sun laid its warm kiss on the crown of his head and his arms stayed unmoved even as he thought to pick up his tea. A foul smell passed through on the back of the breeze. His vision faltered.

Far-away nerves turned in his gut and he found himself on his feet without having stood. The world shifted like a passing whirlwind of leaves and now he was in a familiar room; all candles and furs and ink-drawings tacked to the carved wood walls. His left hand steady and unmoving, he held open a pack while his other searched out every item within reach. Clothes, clothes, clothes. The sunlight was replaced by the burn of hot shame in his cheeks and ears and the pricking of eyes on the back of his neck.

“But where will you go? What will you do?” The voice was hollow but _home_ and it begged him to stay. The sun burned inside his chest, then, and it made his own voice shake once he’d found it.

“Find fulfillment,” he bit back, hasty but full to the brim with unshed anger and unshed tears in equal measure. Shaking hands reached for the hunting dagger they had grown to know, “or at least some fun stories.”

“You can find it here,” the disembodied voice urged, gripping without fingers at the back of his head, pulling him back in. Gripping tight. “Please. I know you can; I can prove it to you. I can make it _better.”_

“No,” Syrillon hissed. He drew the dagger from its sheath but didn’t turn to face that familiar stranger in the doorway. He knew his face without seeing it. He turned the shaking blade in his palm and then raised it to his hair, where five years’ growth lay in a tight knot. Since his harrowing, wasn’t it? The last time anything had changed? Fitfully, he began sawing through to then drop the clump of it at his father’s feet.

“You can’t make it better. You won’t.” He whispered, spiteful, returning his blade and slinging his pack over his shoulder. He brushed past the faceless man in his doorway and slipped out of home. The wind and its cruel, acerbic scent followed him into the dark.

-

He needed his blade.

He awoke with something like a death rattle; breaths coming too quick to ruined lungs. He was startled, first, by the acrid smell in the air. It caught in his throat and he keeled onto his side as bile came to meet it. He tried to prop himself up but he kept tumbling. It took four or five tries for him to notice the change; his left arm, just two inches above where the elbow had been, was now gone. Vanished.

Well, not so much vanished as eviscerated. He had a strong feeling he knew what the stench came from and the thought only made him heave a few more times. Nothing came out, but the harsh seizing of his ribs made him cough until he nearly _did_ choke something up. His right arm shook from the effort of keeping himself off the ground. Letting out a strangled, panicked sound, he rolled onto his back. Hot tears came streaming before he knew they had even been created and then he was letting out ragged sobs through an already raw throat. He fought to wrap his arms around himself but the weak embrace of one shaking arm only made frustration and despair churn another time. He choked for another breath. His head was hot and he needed to do something. He needed his blade.

Where would he go? How would he get out? Solas was long gone, now, and the tall eluvian at the end of the cliff was now shut. Cut off. Somehow, he had to find his way to the palace. Had his friends left him, or were they still out there? Searching?

He rolled uneasily onto his stomach, fingers digging into the ragged dirt as he tried to crawl his way down the path. Jagged rock cut into his palm and arm and jutted into his knees as he tried to move. He let out another desperate sound and slumped along the ground, only making it a pitiful few paces from where he’d started. An especially pointy piece of rock pressed into his forehead. He could only sob until his chest was wracked with aching pain after every tremor. Until his sniffling gave him a coughing fit that only pricked more tears at his eyes.

He let out a weak, pitiful whine and stared out dully at the pink-coloured sunset stretching into the distance. Would anyone come for him? A headache pounded behind his eyes like a weak child’s fists and he took in another quiet, gasping sniffle so he might be able to breathe through his nose. The dried, crackled blood or muck framing his face grew unbearable. He wrestled his glove off with his teeth and scratched too roughly at the skin, nails catching on newly-gouged scars along his cheek and forehead. His hand came back with fresh blood, but where precisely it came from was only a guess.

He curled his arm up so he could prop his head against it and let out a shaky sigh. It kicked up orange-brown dust in a little flurry which made him cough and splutter. His eyes drooped, protesting consciousness, and he let out a few more uneasy breaths. His mind had just started to quiet; too tired and too hopeless to bother with any more sobbing. Weak enough to feel resigned to whatever fate awaited him. Then, his eyes snapped open.

The sending crystal laid in its protective satchel just where he’d left it. He wrestled it from his pocket and, giving a silent prayer, fiddled with it in any way he possibly could. He tapped clumsy fingers all along its surface, whispered a few sweet words, et alia. His movements became less _beseeching_ and more _insistent_ the longer he went on. His nailbeds pressed white with the force he used to grip at it.

“Hello?” He repeated again and again, his voice hoarse and grating. “Hello, can you hear me? _Hello?”_ He was tempted to toss the crystal away in a fit. That assumed he wouldn't somehow crush it to dust in a vice grip. Unlikely, he assumed, given he didn't even have the power to walk. Then, as if from nowhere, it spoke back:

“Amatus, is that you?” Dorian’s voice, near but distorted, rang out. Syrillon rolled weakly onto his back and let out what could’ve been a dazed laugh.

“Fuck, finally,” he breathed, “I’m here. I’m alive.” He gasped, squeezing his eyes shut against the growing throbbing in his skull, “help me,” he said, letting his head fall back. The rock beneath him pressed uncomfortably into his skull but he didn’t care. “Please, help me.”

The response turned to mush in his ears and he managed a meager groan as his own strength crumbled around him. Days of standing strong suddenly stopped at his feet and all the relief and terror rushed in at once. His lungs seized with shaky breaths as the tension finally left him. Then, sleep rushed forth to take its place.

-

He awoke when the pressure on his head lessened. He let himself loll limply as arms encircled him and lifted him from the rocky ground. He let out another shaking breath and a too-loud laugh thundered next to him.

“Hey, welcome back, boss.” Bull greeted. Likely the one carrying him; given how each word was punctuated with a baritone rumble to his right side. Syrillon managed a groan.

“Yeh, hey,” he replied, slurred.

“Dorian said he’d kill you if you died. Did you hear that one?” Bull snitched, unsuitably teasing.

“High standards,” Syrillon spat, “ridiculous.” He ran a limp hand over his face and scrubbed at one eye. “Going back t’ sleep, kill me later. Get Josephine to… yeah.”

“You got it, boss.”


	14. Alive, Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sera coming to talk is like when your youngest sibling just comes to stand in the doorway of your bedroom and do nothing. just to bother you (source: I am that sibling)

Voices, hushed but harsh, warred outside Syrillon’s borrowed bedroom. It took a few tries to blink his heavy eyes open. Alone, marooned in a shifting sea of white sheets, the sun filled the room to the brim. The broad oak door on the wall opposite was like a stain against the white walls and tall, sloped ceiling. It seemed to be the origin of those voices; turning them into a chorus of anonymous gibberish. Using the sum of his energy, Syrillon lifted his good hand to rub at his eyes.

A gentle breeze entered the room, stirring his silken drapes into a silent frenzy. Bright, white sunlight shone in through the open window and little songbirds, painted against its distant body, cast fleeting shadows along the herringbone floors. Syrillon filled his lungs with that cool springtime air and lolled back against the hard wood headboard. He let his eyes fall gently shut and tuned more into the world outside his wyvern-down bed.

The songbirds returned, somewhere in amongst the landscape. A chickadee called out and Syrillon, wetting his lips, whistled a mimic of the song to himself. The room was painted a smooth layer of red-orange with his eyes closed. Blind, his good hand fisted weakly in his crunchy, starched covers. His legs, now that he’d come to, felt too hot under the layers of blanket. He hadn’t the energy to change it, however. He let out another whistle as the distant song continued.

“I see you’re awake.” Syrillon cut his song off and blinked his eyes open. Upon looking back at the door, he found it propped partway open. Dorian leaned on the frame, one hand resting on the outside-facing knob. There was a small smile on his lips. Slow, given his still-receding layer of sleep, Syrillon looked down at himself.

“I suppose I am.” He joked lamely, his voice hoarse enough to surprise himself. He cleared his throat with a cough. Dorian, perking up, stopped acting as gatekeeper and stepped fully inside the bedroom. He soothed the door shut at his back and then wandered to sit in a plush chair at Syrillon’s bedside. A forgotten throw blanket laid itself across the seat and arms, making the outline of an invisible man. Dorian slotted right into place. Syrillon, lolling his head lazily, spared him the goofiest smile he could manage. It turned out more like a dopey, closed-eyed simper.

“Feels I’ve slept for an age.” He murmured.

“Only three days, but I suppose we could round out the difference.” Fingers intertwined with his own and Syrillon managed a small squeeze. His next smile was more hesitant.

“Dreamed about you,” he said, watching their hands sit still, “and… about what I said. You know; the argument we had?” Dorian let out a quiet sigh cloying of meek exasperation.

“Jumping straight to it,” he murmured. Then, “I know what you’re about to say and it’s not necessary. We were both too long without proper sleep or time to think. And I was, admittedly, rather hypocritical. It… was a poor time and the wrong place. Nothing constructive would’ve come from it, even if I hadn’t pushed.” A roughened thumb traced the lines of veins on the back of his hand.

“I’m sorry, regardless. For my part.” A soft kiss pressed against his bruised knuckles.

“Now, there you go again, breaking my heart.” Dorian let out a sigh somewhere in the realm of melodrama. “Be a bit more flawed, won’t you? So I can at least feel like I’m in good company.”

“Sweet-talker. I’ve no idea what you’re trying to gain from this.”

“A chance at a diatribe, maybe. The silence has been deafening without anyone to rib me; I’ve taken up the habit of murmuring to myself. I’m certain the chambermaids think I’ve gone mad.” Syrillon let out a laugh which was a few defined beats, his teeth-baring smile louder in comparison. For a moment, he thought to wind his left hand in the material of his blankets. Nothing changed.

“Oh, poor you.” Dorian’s smile dimmed an inch, heralding his incoming doting.

“How are you feeling?” He asked, tiptoeing the line of what was probably desperate concern. “Does anything hurt?”

“No.” Syrillon replied, quieter. He looked down at himself, avoiding his tightly-bandaged left arm. What remained of it. A hand squeezed in his other as he grew silent. He moved his left arm, like trying to put his hand atop where two already sat despite the uselessness. A phantom pain ran up to his shoulder and he swallowed thickly.

“It’s just another scar, right?” He whispered. He tried to smile--to fool himself in the way he always did; _it’s just a limb, I’m alive, I never liked that arm anyway--_ but the tears came regardless. The side of the bed dipped as Dorian came to sit beside him, wrapping arms around his shoulders and letting his head hide in the crook of his neck. The sting of sudden, unwarranted change came in waves and it kept his tears flowing. Then, it was a matter of shame.

“Cassandra hates me, doesn’t she?” He murmured, choked, to himself. “For what I did. What I said.” A strangled sob wrenched itself from his chest, like a jerking in his lungs, and he covered his mouth to control the sound. A hand smoothed over his hair, trying to soothe him, and he schooled his breathing between hasty sniffles.

“Cassandra’s a grown woman,” Dorian said, his voice like a rumble beside his ear, “she’ll be fine.” There was an ounce of contempt to it and Syrillon wondered whether it was those two who had been arguing outside his door.

“If she’s right?” Syrillon took in a few more quiet gasps and rubbed fitfully at his misty eyes.

“I would gladly be wrong for you.” A hand tugged through his hair and Syrillon slumped limply into the touch. “perhaps it’s foolish of me, but I am very determined to keep a good opinion of you. I’m quite sure that you have hardly an evil bone in your body.”

“Just some misshapen ones.” Syrillon sighed, managing a bare laugh.

“Probably.”

Solas’s words, though they had the sheen of pain and exhaustion marring them, still echoed in his mind. It was hard to be truly at ease, given that sense of foreboding they brought. The knowledge that, sooner rather than later, the world would come to another end.

He squeezed his eyes shut. The Maker had finally given him what he’d pleaded for; time. Time to spend with the man he loved, without needing to worry about much aside from bare necessity and meaningless distraction. He could step back now, finally, and retire for his last dwindling years. He was free; right at the time when it would be least enjoyable. When the world seemed dull and he’d attained an even thicker skin and more nihilistic outlook than he’d started with. Maybe he was just getting old.

“Do you think we would’ve met if I wasn’t at the Conclave?” Syrillon asked, cheek squished against Dorian’s collarbone. The mage drew back just enough to look down at him, a small, sad smile playing on his lips.

“This again?” An affirmative hum. “Very well, I’ll humour you.” Syrillon did his best to shuffle over so they might sit together more properly on the bed. His body ached from even the smallest movement, but he was finally able to lay back with his head propped on Dorian’s shoulder. Worth the effort, he figured.

“A necromantic love story, maybe. I accidentally bind you and you charm me with your wiles and your… winning humour.” Syrillon let his eyes flutter closed, tuning into the rumble of the man’s voice as he lay against him.

“Seems unfair that I’m the dead one in the relationship.”

“I’m playing to my own strengths.” Dorian replied, flippant.

“Then how about you as a charming, bratty prince?” An abrupt, short chuckle (which was only mildly threatening) broke the air and Dorian landed a barely-there slap to Syrillon’s shoulder. It wouldn’t have even passed as enough to kill a fly, but the elf still let out a whiny, pained complaint. Like usual.

“And you’re… what? The only servant whose attitude I put up with?”

“More like your royal protector. Whose attitude you put up with, of course.”

“Of _course.”_ Syrillon found Dorian’s hand and intertwined their fingers once more, despite them already laying side-by-side and shoulder to shoulder.

“Mage college.” He suggested, abrupt. “I bet you were the star pupil. All… _look at me, I’m the smartest._ Like you are.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Dorian replied, tugging their hands to rest over his chest, where he could trap the elf’s under another of his own. “And I suppose you’d be my natural rival.”

“Oh, well, _naturally.”_ Syrillon wriggled in his place to press a kiss high on the mage’s cheek. “You know me; innately gifted, incredibly annoying. I’d be the bane of your existence. The sexual tension would be incredible.” They shared a quiet giggle under the cover of another passing breeze.

“How often do you think about this sort of thing?” Dorian asked, shifting the subject. He stared up at the bright, lofty ceiling as the smile slowly faded out of his lips.

“Whenever I’ve got time to dream.” Little patterns were traced into the back of Syrillon’s hand, leaving a trail of tickles he couldn’t bring himself to try and escape.

“That often?” A quiet hum of agreement vibrated between their chests.

“I want to imagine every life of yours I can’t be a part of.” The movement stilled and they lay there, silent. Given a few long seconds, Syrillon pulled away. In case the mage had somehow fallen asleep. Instead, Dorian shifted to look at him, something near pain written on his brow.

“Too heavy?” Syrillon whispered, letting out a meek laugh. Dorian smacked his lips, visibly looking for the right words.

“You could’ve warned me,” he murmured, a bit like a pout in how he said it, “I’m out of practice with my heartwrenching sincerity.”

“Oh. Well, in hindsight, perhaps you should prepare yourself.”

“That’s very helpful. Thank you.”

“And anyway, I don’t know what you mean by _out of practice._ You’re a natural at all of… this. A trained professional at sincerity; y'should see your puppy eyes, they're unbearable. Not to mention giving me such fancy, sweet gifts without a reason. I’m just trying to keep up, else I'll feel like a high-class escort.” Syrillon crushed his cheek on his fist and Dorian did much of the same, looking up at him from where he laid lower on the bed. He let out a mild hum.

“I’m certainly not looking to be paid back or kept up with, but it’s not like I can stop you.”

“If you’d tell me what it is you’re looking for, I wouldn’t need to be stopped.” Dorian let out a long, melodramatic sigh.

“Yes, but I know exactly what you’ll say when I _do_ tell you.”

“Go on, try me. I’m sure I can surprise you.” Dorian rubbed two fingers at his temple and then his eye, thinking on his words.

“I… feel rather like I’m taking advantage of your good nature, sometimes," _like I don't deserve it,_ "like I could ask you for anything and you'd give it." _Like maybe you’ll come to realize it and it’ll be the straw that broke the camel’s back--_

“Dorian,” Syrillon chided, the way he always did. Like the mage was drinking too much wine to forget his worries, or he was hiding them away in equal measure, or working himself to the bone because he thought he ought to. It was too gentle and too caring and it made Dorian let out another long sigh, knowing that _that_ was exactly what he’d dreaded hearing with his admittance. Knowing that, whenever he’d heard it, Syrillon was probably right and he was in the midst of unworking all his carefully-crafted barriers and barbed-wired protection.

He’d nearly gotten used to all the abrupt heart-bearing chats Syrillon tended towards. They were plentiful, inescapable and equal parts insufferable and heart-wrenchingly charming. He was getting quite a lot of practice with all this _honesty_ business, but it was just as well. Someone had to make an honest man of him _someday._

“I’m a grown man and I can judge whether you’re taking advantage of me. _Having different views_ and _being a little ornery_ aren’t it.”

“Well, when you phrase it like that--”

“--I love you very much. Please don’t feel like you need to make up for… existing. For being how you are. If I disliked that about you, I wouldn’t have come to care about you this much; and trust me, I am an _absolute_ fool for you.” Syrillon shuffled a little closer, despite the aching in his ribs and limbs.

“I seem to remember you saying that you’ve always been one.” A tiny, giddy-looking smile crossed the elf’s lips.

“You still remember that?” Syrillon chuckled.

“Hard to forget that night.” There was an honest, heartfelt _love_ to his words past the innuendo. The elf’s smile was fond as he gave a little nod.

“It was definitely something special.” The elf tucked himself in at his lover’s side, surrendering finally into a feeling like relaxation. Their easy, carefree banter put to rest their days and weeks of worries with the pretense of _just teasing_ and _just joking,_ like always. It was a dull, soft distraction from the world outside which neither of them was yet equipped to face. A few more hours, perhaps. To revel in what was nearly lost.

-

The bedroom was heavy with sunset, now. Syrillon had barely graduated to sitting at the desk, given a number of painful minutes spent trying to wobble his way over to it in the first place. He was stuck there, now, in the upholstered mahogany prison. The shape of it pressed an uncomfortable knob into his back. The only other warmth from the room was the fireplace, but it was the empty bath he was feeling pulled towards. Perhaps he could enlist someone to carry him; he wouldn't be putting his feet to use for at least another twelve hours.

Dorian had stepped out for another few minutes; searching out whatever he could find for food or some passing entertainment to bring back to Syrillon's room. He hadn't an appetite, but it was an easy way to get the mage to take a break. He needed it, even as much as he insisted he didn't. So, Syrillon was left alone to the crackling fire and the gentle breeze still stirring outside his window; which was colder, now, come dusk.

A creaking outside his door interrupted the steady silence. Then, it shifted open a crack, and a familiar head of choppy blonde hair peeked inside. Sera spotted him quickly. As if startled, she stepped into the room and shut the door at her back. It was a bit too forceful and she flinched mutely at the sound. Syrillon watched her odd entrance with his head tilted to one side, propped up onto his fist.

"You could've knocked." He said, matter-of-fact but not bothering to be chiding. She made a vague sound to brush the comment off. He shifted in his spot and made an openhanded gesture. "You obviously want something. What can I do for you?" As if turning a key in a lock, Sera straightened up an inch.

"Wanted you to get better faster so we could talk but I've got too many thoughts--they're like... like li'l bugs in my head--and I need't get 'em out." She confessed, fitful, pointing at her temple. Syrillon made a gesture for her to proceed. Her brow pursed in something like worry and her lips pursed and parted, like rehearsing the lines running through her mind. "I need you to make me a promise, alright?"

"Depending."

"You're not allowed to be all... _mua-ha-ha,_ evil mage, alright? I... I stood up for you, yeah? When someone calls knife-ear behind your back, Jenny's the one who puts that nasty, itchy ivy in their breeches! We stick up for eachother, two elves-who-aren't who wear shoes. Because _you're_ the only one around I can make cookies for. You... you make the scary things in the world a little less scary and you can't _become_ one of them." She rambled, voice wavering between weak and insistent as she went.

"Is this about... before?" Syrillon verified, "with the... blood magic?" She looked askance for a passing moment, like a child trying to hide the truth so clearly on display.

"Thought you were one of the good ones." She murmured, swallowing thickly. "It's _all mages,_ then you. You're... different. You're not like them. You _can't_ be like them, alright? No... demons, or sacrifice, or whatever. You're not allowed to be like them." It was odd, being stared down with wide eyes like hers. He'd spent so long with things the other way round.

"I promise," he said, even if he couldn't. The distressed purse in her brow dissipated and her usual lopsided smile wormed its way back onto her lips.

"Think Little'd make you something?" She asked, making a vague gesture for where his arm should've been, launching them into the territory of idle banter once more. That put the worries to rest, then. Good. "Like, for unlocking doors."

"Lockpick hand?"

"Or fire." Sera asked next, pulling up a footstool to use as a seat. "Or, uh... icicles. Always thought that'd make for a friggin' ten-point kill."

"But if it's someplace warm, the arm would melt away."

"Well, just drown 'em. Easy fix."


	15. Waxing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oooo so penultimate....

Syrillon slipped the cold bronze button through the odd-shaped button-hole before smoothing the breast of his jacket down with one palm. He straightened his sleeves for a third time and wondered, eyeing his reflection, if there was anything to be done for his dark circles. Four days’ rest and still they sat stubbornly, stark against his warming skin.

He’d given up on trying to do anything about the scars. It had taken quite a bit of inappropriate flirting for Dorian to convince him he didn’t look like some sort of Ostwick delicacy; given all the cheese-like gaps in his visage. _Either way, you pair well with a fine wine,_ he’d said, as if it was the cleverest thing he’d ever thought. The brat.

Stylists had come and gone, doing their best to make him seem as presentable as possible. He had improved a great deal with his rest and it showed clearly; he stood straighter than he had in some time. His hair had been cut down, as was his custom and his necessity, given how knotted and terrible it became after his trials and subsequent three-day sequestering. His skin was losing its dull sheen and his eyes seemed… brighter.

He eyed his uniform with a weak sigh. The gaudy, decorative bits had stayed; the chain and the little tasseled rope. He was almost surprised they hadn’t added more to distract from the imbalance in _limbs._ Or else something just as gaudy and Orlesian.

He didn’t look at it, sometimes. When he could avoid it. Not that there was anything _to_ look at; rather the opposite, that obvious _absence_ of something which made his skin crawl like he was being haunted. But why? _It wasn’t as if it changed anything,_ he told himself, even if it was unconvincing. He was the same person as before, so why couldn’t he just shake this feeling? This oddity; feeling unusual and... incomplete.

Perhaps it would be a good reminder. Like those that lay in cross-hatched patterns across his shoulder blades, this scar would be what let him hang onto what little remained of his memory. Seeing Solas and then losing his arm was a groggy, painless memory; probably the shock of it. He might’ve fooled himself into thinking it was all a terrible, specific nightmare if not for his wound to prove its legitimacy. Everyone and everything seemed to be moving ever onward but this scar would persist, ageless. It would keep him tightly bound to all that he’d accomplished and all that he had yet to ensure.

Though, for now, it only made him look silly in his uniform. How their best solution was just: _here, let’s slap a pin on it and call that tailored,_ he had no idea. He wouldn’t let them get away with it next time, that was certain. He expected a bit more panache; perhaps he could get Dagna to work up something for it. She’d be ecstatic to learn about any gruesome bodily harm that befell him, if only for a research opportunity. A new arm crafted from some sort of exotic and strange material, maybe. One which could shoot arrows.

Sending a brief glance over his shoulder, he scanned the empty room and the propped-open door along the far wall. It lay still, though vague shadows moved back and forth behind it, labouring away in their own little world. He leaned in a bit closer to the mirror. Turning his head, he inspected the pointed tips of his ears. The broad slope of his nose, the odd set to his eyes. His elfiness. Things, like his arm, which seemed so simple and so surface-level; he could look at them, now, and say: _yes, that’s me,_ even if it didn’t fit. The connotation didn’t sit in his stomach as it should have.

It roiled, making him anxious. He’d always been _the elf_ in amongst men. In Antiva, a hundred years ago, and in the Inquisition. He wasn’t so much _the elf,_ now, as he was _the one that’s trying to be elfy,_ was he? He couldn’t remember the rules or all the traditions or the stories about every star. How had Solas seen him? As a naive, ignorant shadow of the world he used to know, his spirit and knowledge handicapped by a thousand years of struggle? A toddler playing dress-up of something they didn’t grasp? How had his family seen him? How would the Inquisition see him? Elven, but also their brave, fearless leader? A washed-up, worn-out warrior who lost his blocking arm?

How could he tell anyone about all the particular knowledge he now held? About the ancient elves, and the truth of his own existence? _Who_ could he tell?

It was too many thoughts for an empty stomach. Too many worries about seeming too un-elfy to bear the burden of their appearance. His hand laid flat against his stomach and he took in a breath to ease his own nausea. That, too, had faded with time. He plucked up the long-cold cup of tea on the low mahogany desk beside his mirror and took a small pull. The elfroot taste had grown strong enough to be bitter. Still, it left a soothing warmth in its wake.

“Are you ready, my Lord?” Josephine, peeking just an inch inside the room, cast a meekly inquisitive look upon his back. Syrillon abandoned his drink and turned to face her with a peppy smile.

“More or less. Could use some help with the collar, if you don’t mind.” A wordless _of course_ bode, his ambassador slipped inside the room and straightened the folds out of his uniform.

“I will be giving the address soon,” she said, her eyes on his lapels, “I must admit, I _am_ somewhat nervous about what’s to come.” He spared her a small, breezy smile and laid a gentle hand just above her elbow. It was barely enough to slow her in her task.

“Now, what’s this? My fearless diplomat crumbling under the pressure of a few fops? After all this time? Thedas really _is_ falling apart.” Her laugh barely humoured him, but there was relief behind her eyes. She smoothed her fingers along the line of his shoulders and straightened out the seam of his jacket.

“Your sister is here. Did anyone tell you?” Syrillon perked up an inch, a giddy smile crossing his chapped lips.

“I don’t suppose you were premature in sending out condolence letters?”

“I haven’t any idea as to why she’s here,” Josephine replied, politely reticent. Syrillon wiggled a teasingly accusatory finger.

“You’re up to something, I just know it,” he said, conspiratory, “whatever it is, just keep her away from Cullen. She loves dogs more than she loves me, and that’s saying something. I’m her favourite.”

“I have no doubt you excel as a sibling, my Lord,” Josephine mused, an older sister in her own right, her intonation now more in the realm of politely disparaging.

“I only want to set the record straight.”

“Of course.”

“Oh, but could you imagine it? The two of them together, all cheesy and bumbling. So cloying, I wouldn’t be able to stand it.”

“Quite presumptuous to make up such scenarios with little more than a shared passion between them,” Josephine advised, though there was a tint of amused curiosity in the way she said it. She strode towards the settee and plucked up the thick, leatherbound tome lain out there. The classical eye of the chantry lay on its front cover in a decorative tooling.

“Don’t pretend like you don’t consider that sort of ridiculous notion. Cullen’s so…” Syrillon trailed off, gesturing vaguely, “...I don’t know. Hopeless is the wrong word. Endearing, maybe. To a fault. Like one of those floppy-eared dogs who always look like they’re grinning.” Along with the tome came a small pin, which Josephine took the liberty of attaching to one of the Inquisitor’s barer lapels. He lifted his chin in an almost snooty affectation as he was accessorized.

“I never realized you could be such a gossip.” Josephine said, halfway between teasing and chiding him.

“Only the ones I think might have a chance with my sister; I’m nosy by nature. Say, you’ve met her, haven’t you? I’m sure she’d find you charming. She likes busy people.”

“My Lord, I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Josephine replied, side-stepping the question. Syrillon offered an impassive shrug.

“Just thought I’d give you a chance. You would get along, that’s all.”

 _“Thank you,”_ Josephine said, a bit more insistent, pushing the thick leather tome into his grasp, “but I’m…” as she trailed off, the grin which sprouted on his face was far more insolent. Boyish.

“...Indisposed? I’ll bet. Blackwall’s such a _boy.”_ He ribbed, earning the same sort of exhausted sigh he was accustomed to receiving from a sibling. “You should see the way he stares. I’ve considered making it a game, y’see. Bet on how many seconds his sentence’ll go off-track when you’re in the room. I think the longest was… four? Or was it six? Mm. Memory’s going.”

“I… can’t see how such a thing would be much for entertainment.” She said, sidestepping once again. Her tone was equal parts flippant blustering and meek, quiet embarrassment at the flattery-by-proxy. His smile grew to be less teasing and he bumped her arm gently with the back of his hand.

“You should get ready to make your address. Wouldn’t want to be late.” He advised. Josephine drew back and let out a tight sigh as they soothed back into the role of _Inquisitor_ and _advisor._ She spared a small nod and an even smaller smile. Then, in passing, she braced a hand at his arm.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” she said at a whisper, cloyingly earnest.

“Mm. Me too. Alternative would’ve been tricky.”

“Of course,” she murmured, chasing it with a roll of her eyes. Her hand dropped and, sparing another small smile, she left him alone in the borrowed bedroom.

-

Voices filled the hall outside like a stench and it turned Syrillon’s stomach just the same. His footsteps and the anxious tingle in his fingers were the only company in his amble down the long hallway. He was starting to get distracted by his mirror image in the glossy tile underfoot; anything to get his mind off what was to come. Minutes, hours, weeks and months in advance, he could feel it. A yearning for a time when things were the same; when the Inquisition was still a home which beat inside him like a second heart. The perimeter guards provided their bows and the tall double-doors groaned open.

“If a decision cannot be made by the Inquisition, it must fall to these sovereign nations to make it _for_ you.” Arl Teagan’s voice was grating and full to the brim with acerbic irritation. Syrillon could make out the sweat on his brow from the distance. The assembly room was too full of people and the air hung stiff and stagnant like they were underwater. There was the gentle shuffling of fans and people adjusting their seats for a view as Syrillon slipped through the doorway at a parting in the raised audience.

Josephine’s reply--juggling irritation and politeness against much of the same, the time for avoidance slowly dwindling--was lost in the meager murmurs which followed the Inquisitor’s entrance. Four strides away, now, from the table at which he sat his trial. Two strides from a change he couldn’t undo. One. The leather bound tome dropped onto the wooden table with a resounding _thud_ of old parchment and hollow words.

“Do you know what this is?” Syrillon asked the stuffed but silent room, his voice possessed of a weighty breath which sounded more like ennui than he’d intended. He gestured towards the tome with an open hand in the ensuing pause. He turned, slowly, on his feet to glance around the court. Blank, curious faces hovered in the stands. He picked out each familiar face as he went but tried not to linger. One; bright blue-green eyes and a knuckle curled at the chin, covering an unrestrained smile of encouragement, made him falter for a fleeting moment. He turned back to the heads of the council.

“This… is the record of the first Inquisition. Contains the knowledge and wisdom of the Seekers, and what would be the initial life of this organization. It’s the basis upon which we founded the company that I am proud to represent.” He placed an open palm atop the eye of the chantry, blinding it. Twins and triplets hung behind the Divine and her guests at each shoulder. They shifted with a mute breeze.

“The Inquisition began as a tool to protect the people of Thedas from the “tyranny of magic,” or so it says. Given time, it became the martial arm of the Chantry and acted as the predecessor to the Templar Order. I’m sure we all know them well enough.”

“With all due respect, Inquisitor,” Orlais piped up, “is there a reason behind this history lesson?”

“History is important. The Inquisition is a historical group, so I thought I should illustrate my point. Done all this reading, too, and I wanted to find a use for it.” Syrillon made a vague shrug. Duke Cyril gestured for him to continue, placated.

“It’s always the same song, isn’t it? Large, powerful organization with good intentions is led astray by greed or ignorance and it grows to be worse than the thing it swore to defeat.” It was easy enough for him to say; given all that he’d faced. Wardens, Templars, Seekers; each new enemy was a once-great body, endeavoring to do its best whilst wading through a sea of corruption and adversity. It made the end seem inevitable, really. That, or going the way of the last Inquisitor: suddenly and irrevocably disappearing, only to be steadily erased from the world. Like sandy breeze chipping away at those long-stood shapes littered across the Wastes. Abandoned, with no more context to it than what could be gleaned by sizing up an eroded statue.

“I love the Inquisition. I can say that with my whole heart. I love what we’ve done to help the people when they’ve needed us and…” he trailed off, eyes wandering the audience on all sides. Ears hung off his every syllable, now, and it was clear in the rapt silence. Now was the time to make his words count. _Now_ was the penultimate; the dwindling countdown, the hourglass closing in on its last flecks of sand. Now was his final judgement.

“... And I’m unendingly lucky to have seen the world the Inquisition shaped. But that’s _then,_ and now, our work is finished. As Inquisitor, I am ending this company as it stands. Our lands and power will be forfeited to their rightful owners and I’ll go ahead and fade back into obscurity.” Like plunging a blade into the neck of a dying animal, the warm, invisible walls of security slowly crumbled. He was left bare and powerless in only a moment, his title dissipated of his own accord.

The murmuring grew and grew until it was like the sound of a howling wind outside the booming voice of the council. Shushes soothed the clamour, but not for long.

“Respectfully, my Lord, I don’t know if that’s your strongest suit.” Arl Teagan said from his high seat, something like gloating as things finally moved his way after what must’ve felt like a week-long uphill struggle. There was relief to his eyes and the ardent crank in his posture was slowly disappearing.

“I’ve nothing but time. I’ll give it a go.” Syrillon replied, his smile more weightless than it had been in what felt like a lifetime.

“There you have it, gentlemen,” Leliana drawled, keeping her tone pleasant. There was a smile to her eyes. “Your decision. I am sure you are quite satisfied?”

“Pleasantly surprised.” Arl Teagan replied. Duke Cyril’s agreement was not so enthusiastic, but it existed all the same. Syrillon offered a sweeping bow at the floor below.

“If you don’t mind, I’ve just lost my job. I’d like to go for a drink or two.” The Divine offered a dismissive hand and, smiling unabashedly to himself, Syrillon turned on his heel. He left the mercifully-made body where it lay, knife plunged in its back and memory softly seated upon a careful pedestal, unmarred.

It haunted him with an ache in his chest, but there was an unmistakable swell of pride to overshadow it. Not of doing _the right thing,_ but of doing the best, and being perfectly content with it. Finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> syr: time to get zooted lmaoo


	16. The Orchid and the Lotus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> God I've been sitting on this chapter for so so long and I just HAD to share. Anyway, enjoy! :')

The grounds were tepid with the lingering heat still seeping out of the cobbled ground. It was a few hours into the evening, now, and though many of the council-goers were keen on returning to their rooms for private dinners, there was enough rabble to keep Syrillon occupied. A warm breeze cut through the courtyard alongside him. The world seemed to have a blanket of blind revelry over it; ignoring any problems which had been or could be happening. Or, perhaps, that was just what Halamshiral felt like come nightfall.

The gardens were brimming. The tavern had long since overflowed and the evening hadn’t yet taken up a chill. Thus, Syrillon approached his familiar gang of misfits, all of them crowding the two sofas set up opposite one another. Cards, coin, drink and pilfered pastries occupied the low, broad table between them.

“Finally worked up the nerve to join the common rabble?” Vivienne asked, low but amused, once he skirted the edge of the fifteen-some party of half-drunk fools. She had her arms primly crossed over her chest, taking part but setting herself at a distance from them; should anyone of import look in their direction. Syrillon slipped his hand into his pocket and sent her a droopy, lopsided smile.

“About time, I’d say.”

“It’s certainly a good thing, to be well-rounded.”

“Boots!” Varric called, stuffed in the middle of a couch with the Iron Bull and Blackwall on either side. Syrillon, tugged closer by a toothy grin, was squished in between the dwarf and the qunari, hip-to-hip. “So, feeling lucky?”

“I’m more interested to know about you. How much did you make off my council appearance?”

“Not a copper. But I wouldn’t tell you if I did, anyway, would I?” An elbow to his ribs made Syrillon jerk in place before turning the other direction.

“Why’d you never introduce me to your sister?” Bull asked, bothering to sound teasingly suspicious. A sloshing cup of lukewarm ale was thrust into his hands and Syrillon unwound from his wince at the qunari’s weak jab. “She’s nice. Pretty smile.”

“Hey,” Syrillon chuckled, raising his free hand in his own defense, “she’s been at Skyhold for ages. If you’ve never been introduced, it’s not my fault.”

“She seemed perfectly willing to be _introduced_ when she came by earlier.”

“That’s disgusting.” Syrillon said, wincing a smile and taking a soothing sip of his drink, as if to quell nausea. “Warn me if you two get together, alright? I’ll have to deafen myself. Just in case.”

“Yeah, ‘course, Boss.” He puzzled over something, then, in that silently pensive sort of way the Bull tended to. Mouth pulled to one side, a hand running over his stubbly chin. Syrillon watched expectantly as another trying-to-be-nonchalant inquiry bubbled up. “How’re you feeling? You remember everything?”

“More or less. It’s a bit patchy.” Bull let out an understanding grunt and took a pull of his own tankard of mystery-booze.

“There was a second I thought you were gonna try n’ kill me. When I got that order to turn on you.”

“Mn. Would you have done it?” Syrillon asked instead.

“No. Would you?”

“Betray, or try to cut you into little pieces?”

“The second one.”

“If you swung for me, sure. Don’t pretend like you don’t mastermind plans of attack for everyone you meet.”

“Fair point.” Both warriors relaxed into something near silence, soaking in the shouting and clamour around them. Bull tuned into something the Chargers were chattering about. As the conversation left him behind, he watched them with a fond grin.

“Are you telling me you didn’t even consider betraying me for a _second?”_ Syrillon piped up again, quietly derisive, and the Bull let out a loud sigh. “I don’t think I believe it.”

“Even if I did, I wouldn’t get very far.” The Iron Bull replied, pointed. Syrillon’s head quirked with interest, sniffing something like gossip. Or else praise, which he was equally interested in.

“Oh?”

“You forget?” Bull jerked his chin in the direction of Dorian, who was doing quite the impression of someone ignorant to the would-be Inquisitor’s approach. His haphazard sideways glances ruined it, somewhat. “I might’ve gotten one _\--maybe_ two--hits on you before I went up in a _big_ ball of fire. Not the kinda fight I’m into. You both fight dirty.”

“As if you wouldn’t.” Syrillon scoffed into his drink, giving the mage a coy wave to assuage his clearly growing need for attention. There was a coquettish bump to Dorian’s brow from behind his cover of playing cards. Sera let out a call as she won their small betting pile. She tugged it greedily closer, hoarding the coppers like a gremlin. Dorian let his hand fall to the table and reclined with a groan, matched by both Varric and Blackwall in gesture. Sera’s ensuing laugh was manic.

The warmth and welcome swaddled him like a protective blanket and he couldn’t help a bittersweet smile. Prematurely, he mourned its slow loss. The night would get cold and dark and the council would be called to a close. One of them would leave, then another, then another. It would be Skyhold, but without the familiar place to tie this memory to. Varric drawled a joke and he had to bite the inside of his lip to stop himself from getting too sappy, knowing it would be a very long time until he'd hear them again.

Syrillon watched his gathered friends with a small, fond smile. A shape or silhouette nearby caught his eye, the orangey dying sun lighting up their metal adornment in blinding little sparks. Cassandra idled, partly unseen, by an overlook. Her arms were crossed tight over her chest and her stance seemed stony. Blocked-off. The sort of way she fought to look when everything else was wrong.

Syrillon set his drink down amongst the clutter and climbed awkwardly around the crisscrossed, jumbled maze of legs and feet to get out of the sitting space. He went the long way around one of the tall planters and approached, tentative, to where the Seeker stood, looking out at the distant landscape.

The revelry faded just slightly with every step. If he looked over his shoulder, he might’ve been able to spot Sera wrestling to take up his place on the couch. The cobbled, peat moss-strewn ground was quiet underfoot as he came to stand at Cassandra’s side. He followed her gaze to where yellow-tinted plains and foggy green mountains lay, a world apart from theirs. His expression was a wince as he attempted to broach _any_ topic that might lead into an apology fit for… all of it; treating her so terribly and being unable to make it up.

“I...just wanted to offer my congratulations,” he said, breaking the Seeker’s solitary silence. She didn’t glance in his direction, nor give any implication she might’ve heard what he said. “You’ve made history, regardless of what comes next.” He caught a small nod in his periphery and he allowed himself to feel cautiously optimistic.

“It feels strange,” she replied, her voice low, “as if our work will never be finished.” A more solemn expression took to him and he nodded to himself. _Our_ work being the Inquisition’s people, or _our_ work being _people like them--_ warriors, would-be heroes, et cetera--he couldn’t know.

“Maybe.” Syrillon agreed. “Solas has to be dealt with.” He grew quiet for a moment. “...What d'you think you’ll do when the time comes to face him?”

“Speak to him. Show him… show him he is wrong, even if he believes he is right. But that he can change, and that he can still be a good man. Our friend.” Her brows pulled into a furrow. “We must show him that this is not the end. What else can we do?” She breathed a featherlight sigh, stepping around the tension which sat between them like a lump. It matched the one hanging in Syrillon’s throat and he worried his lip as if it would make any difference.

“...And if it doesn’t work?” He ventured. “If he isn’t the man or the friend we thought?”

“I will fight him, if it means Thedas will be safe. But that is where my duty ends.” She made a sound like a scoff. “Perhaps, if the world is allowed to live in peace for any amount of time, I will be given the opportunity to travel. Someone has to sample all the mystery cheeses out in the wilds.” Syrillon’s laugh at the copycat joke was bare and it had hardly a whisper of a voice.

“It is good to know that the Maker listened.” Cassandra said, given a beat of silence. “Each day, I prayed that we would all make it through; that I would see the world the Inquisition could shape. I prayed for you, as well, and that you would find rest.”

“I appreciate the thought.”

“Even though it doesn’t seem to have worked?”

“Even so.” Syrillon fiddled with one of the polished buttons on his jacket, rolling his thumb along its edge and feeling the embossed design. “Suppose that means you’re still in this for the long haul, then.” Lavellan murmured. She glanced up towards him, though he was busy looking down at his hand.

"I suppose it does." She replied. His expression perked up into a weak smile, partly apologetic. Hers was soft and grateful, not quite forgiving but not so heavy with anger or unbidden emotion.

“Good.”

-

The sky was all brilliant pinks and oranges against the lilac and indigo-coloured clouds. The breeze strolled through, catching his lapels and making part of his open jacket flutter. He leaned back on his hand, looking out at the steadily darkening sky to the sound of distant revelry. The balustrade was a comforting perch; not quite a place to sit, but a place to cling to, should he need it.

“You didn’t happen to forget about all the merriment going on, did you?” Dorian’s voice was smooth and soft, tiptoeing the line of the other man’s temper to ensure he wasn’t invading upon a peaceful moment. Syrillon glanced back at him with a bright-eyed smile and he took it as his invitation to stand at the elf’s side, the balcony railing dividing them.

“Just wanted’a watch the show.” Syrillon replied. Arms slipped around his abdomen, calling him to rest against the body at his back, to which he submitted. His own hand came to lay atop one of those forearms, thumb brushing little black hairs in the wrong direction. There was a small, easy sigh which passed them like a breeze. Seconds ticked by, plentiful enough that neither man knew whether it was closer to minutes. They stretched out luxuriantly, like a cat finished its nap in the sunlight.

“I suppose this leaves us with a few questions, doesn’t it?” Dorian’s sudden voice was a rumble at his back, traipsing uneasily into a topic it seemed neither man especially wished to broach.

“Such as?”

“Well, when I made previous plans, it was with the assumption that you _wouldn’t_ stumble into another calamity and then end the Inquisition with your own hands.” Syrillon let out a hum and took in a cool breath of orange-tinted air.

“You know what’s the worst thing about havin’ one arm?” He asked instead, skipping over Dorian’s implication. “Can’t cross ‘em over my chest. Never realized how much I used to do that.”

 _“Syrillon,”_ it was a quietly stern, but still somewhat pleading reminder. _Don’t make me make the hard choices on my own,_ perhaps. Longer fingers wound around one of Dorian’s hands, giving it a squeeze.

“I’d like to come with you. To Tevinter. If that’s… alright.” There was a pause. Another mute sigh. A chin pressed into his shoulder and Syrillon traced shapes with his thumb along the bare skin in his grasp.

“It isn’t safe.” It was a weak murmur.

“I never am.”

“You needn’t follow me everywhere, amatus,” Dorian implored.

“Only to the ends of the Earth, right? How should I know what you’re getting up to back home?” Syrillon unwound the arms enveloping him and turned to face Dorian proper, herding him into the space between his thighs. He spared a wincingly sincere smile. “If you don’t want me with you, that’s your prerogative. But… there’s nothing left for me here. Whatever the Inquisition becomes from now on can be handled through meetings and correspondence.”

“And what about your family? Your clan?”

“Little I can do to help that Yevan couldn’t do twice as well. They’ve got on fine without me the past decade.”

“Just because you aren’t the Inquisitor doesn’t mean you don’t have responsibilities to the people who worked under you.” Syrillon’s hand came to rest at his shoulder, pressing into the textured fabric.

“They’re adults. They deserve time to unwind before we get back into the thick of it, just the same as me.” The hand slid up to the mage’s cheek, brushing featherlight. “And don’t think for a moment that doesn’t include you. I _know_ what you’re like, dove. It’s impossible to get you’a break from something you’re into.”

“That’s your proposal? You come with me to Tevinter to be my caretaker?” It was a meekly amused question. Syrillon pressed a grinning kiss to his cheek.

“If that’ll convince you.” He said, more at a murmur. “I’ll keep entirely out of your way. Be a charming bed warmer for you, if nothing else. But you’re not talking me into staying in this frigid shithole when you’re the one I’m living for.” He punctuated his latter words with a precise tap to Dorian’s sternum.

“Such a silver tongue,” the mage lamented, too pleased to be unhappy but too anxious to be truly teasing. _“Ugh,_ alright. You can come along. But you’ll have to do what I tell you; unfamiliar territory, and all that. Don’t want you stepping into anything.” There was a weighty concern behind the words. Less of _stepping into something_ and more of _being stepped on_ while both their hearts tugged in different directions.

“Suddenly _you’re_ the one giving orders. How sexy.” Dorian’s chuckle was low and equal parts encouraging and disparaging.

“Anything to keep you safe, of course. And sane, as the case may be.”

“You _know,”_ Syrillon drawled, matter-of-fact, “I used to be the right hand to one of the _richest_ men in Antiva--” there was a look Dorian gave, as if to say his usual: _oh, only_ one _of the richest?_ “--Bodyguard, personal assistant, et alia. _If_ the price is right, I might consider offering you my services.”

“Now, whatever happened to _keeping entirely out of my way?”_

“I’m a meddler at heart. We’ll skip the bit where I used to sleep around for espionage purposes.” The elf’s smile was perkier, now, when his fingers wound into the material at Dorian’s chest. “All I’m saying is: if I’m hanging around your home all the time, why not make me a guard dog?”

“Quite the demotion. Are you certain you won’t be tearing your hair out looking for something more to do?”

“Oh, pish. The benefits are incredible. I can come sit in your lap and get petted whenever it suits me.”

“Is this still the extended _guard dog_ metaphor? I can’t quite tell anymore.” Syrillon waved off the line of questioning with a cheeky grin.

“Think on it, that’s all. I’ll only ever get as involved as you’d like me to, whatever happens. _And,_ if it puts you more at ease, I was going to send a letter to our wonderful Arcanist. See if she could make me a sword arm.” He gestured to where his _flesh arm_ had gone missing. “Assassins beware: I’m always _armed.”_

“That’s it, you’re not coming.” Dorian said, abrupt, physically trying to distance himself from the punny joke.

“What, in general? That’ll make sitting in your lap so much duller.” Dorian made a half-hearted sound of distressed disgust, retreating a half-step backwards. Syrillon hopped down from his little perch and tugged him back in by a fistful of cloth.

“I’m yours until the very end, dove. That hasn’t changed.”

“And what an end that’ll be. I’m expecting incredible theatrics, so you know. Compared to the last two times I thought perhaps you’d break my heart into little pieces. It’ll have to be equally calamitous, if not more.”

“I’ll be taking all of Thedas down with me, you have my word.”

“As expected.” A smiling kiss pressed to Syrillon’s lips and he bit back, arm winding tight around the mage to pull him in close. Birds called distantly alongside the gentle rustling of the breeze. Syrillon pulled away just enough to cast the man in the light of a bittersweet smile.

"I was scared, you know. Dying..." he trailed off, swallowing his words with a shaky breath at the too-sudden rush of recollection. _Dy_ _ing without you._

It had only been days, but it felt like years. Staring up at the sky, vision blanking from the pain he couldn't recall, chest wracking with sobs he was too weak to voice. _This is it, this is the end, I'll never see my family again, I'll never see Dorian again, I'll never say goodbye,_ all on repeat. It was enough to start an ache in his chest and Syrillon fell back into the embrace, as if to push those phantom words out of mind. To make up for that desperate fear and that despair with the very thing he'd been wailing for.

The dying sun lit another ale-flavoured peck in pinks. A hand found his and squeezed a tight, thankful murmur. He buried his face into Dorian's neck, smothered in the familiar-but-not smell of something like home.

"I love you." He whispered against his skin, breathing deep to soothe the remembered fear pricking at his eyes.

"I..." Hands braced the elf's cheeks and soft lips pressed to his once more, fleeting. Dorian's eyes found his and Syrillon watched him voice the words he so rarely said aloud. No side-stepping or making up for a lame reply. No more murmuring it to himself when the elf couldn't hear it or was already gone. It was barely a whisper, but it was there, in the space between them. "...I love you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'tis not the end..... or is it? :0
> 
> epilogue** coming soon maybe
> 
> (**I said prologue bc im illiterate)


	17. In Bloom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took longer than usual! Enjoy the last chapter!! This is just some assorted Tevinter stuff.

“You know, generally speaking, when you give someone the ‘benefit of the doubt,’ it doesn’t include tearing them to little pieces in front of an audience.” Dorian drawled, mixed with the sound of the tall double doors falling shut at his back. The servant offered a sparse bow before rushing away.

“Think you’re just jealous you did’n get to do it.” Syrillon ribbed, voice low and boyish, as he slipped out of his long jacket to hang it on a pristinely-polished hook beside the door. “Saw that cute little frown of yours. You know the one.” He moved towards the entryway stairs but a gentle hand caught his sleeve and tugged him back.

“Well, naturally.” Dorian murmured, capturing his lover in an embrace of wine-dark velvet. Syrillon relaxed into him, submissive to a smattering of pecks along his cheek and jaw. No one was around to gasp or gape--a reaction the Magister sought out from the public, from time to time (and when his other half would humour him)--but soft, silent moments seemed sweeter. Especially given that being in only one another’s company was growing rarer by the day. They would meet in the morning once they both woke, spend an hour or so together, and--more often than not--it would be Dorian who was whisked away.

“I would be a terrible husband if I didn’t play your knight in shining armor; implicit bias beware.” Syrillon’s response was a low hum of agreement.

“Or silk, as the case may be; stuff that implicit right up their bias.” He drawled, a featherlight smile playing on his lips.

“Mm. Silk shines just as well. It all depends on how well-lit I am.” They moved to the stairs as a unit and, hands bound or brushing--shy to move away now that they had connected--they found their way back to where the day began.

“Well, the spotlight's always on you, so I’m sure you’d be lit like a star.”

“Varric’s nicknames grow more accurate every passing hour, it seems.” Dorian said in a sigh, casting one of his over-layers onto the bedspread. His fingers returned to unwork the pieces which followed. 

The doors shut on their bedroom, leaving behind the tipsy, firelit evening filled with cold stares, blue-tinted jewels and wine-stained lips. They’d arrived too late to join in on any “festivities,” but it was just as well; six soirees in a week left little room to be amused by courtly intrigue. Standing around, sipping wine, humming and hawing about the notes of blackberry and sagebrush while someone was invariably being physically mutilated a room over; all that rot.

As if his collar was already on fire, Syrillon slipped out of his finery with the same amount of haste as a displeased toddler; as if through magic, he hopped, skipped and jumped from his layers and undid two-something hours of work to catapult straight onto the bed.

“I’m so glad you’ve embraced the allure of serving-staff,” Dorian murmured, folding only the nicest, most ornery of his garments and leaving the rest set aside for someone to collect come morning. Syrillon’s remained in an unruly pile on the floor, like usual. The only mess he consistently left out. “Even if you’ve somehow turned it into an exact science. You make being lazy look difficult.”

“Nothing so stuffy as that. It’s art.” Syrillon replied, stretching out luxuriantly and not unlike a cat waiting to be paid attention to. He laid like an unusually graceful lump, eyes fixed on the other man as he went about his more precise four-step routine: now, it was onto the washbasin. Step two. “Don’t want’em bored, but I’d hate for’em to think I’m…” he trailed off, waving his hand and puffing up with a yawn, “...slobbish, or whatever.”

“I don’t think you’re especially at risk for that.” Dorian ribbed, voice far away and accompanied by a gentle splashing. Syrillon traced the beveled layers of the ceiling-work with drooping eyes, running and re-running each memorized path. Step three--the hair--had carried on without him looking. “And anyway, where you have all the energy to care what they think, I’ll never fathom. That’s far too many people to impress.”

“Well, you know me. Gotta keep busy somehow.” Dorian’s footsteps were barely audible as he crossed barefoot over the carpet. The bed dipped and a kiss pressed to his cheek, stirring him from where he lay in a sleepy trance; step four. Hands explored well-known shapes once they recognized the form within reach. One laid over Syrillon’s chest, where his heart lay. The other pressed into the bedspread for support, matching knees carving little dimples in the mattress either side of the elf’s thigh.

“Do I not give you enough to do around here? Snoop through my things, handle correspondence, et cetera?” A few long hairs fell free of their loose tie so Syrillon took care of tucking them quite neatly behind Dorian’s ear, following the strait of more silver-white in amongst the black. His thumb rested, gentle, at where that silver stopped. One temple, more than the other, was streaked with that stress. The famed, renowned Magister who’d stopped trying to hide his grey hairs because his husband told him they were charming; a better claim to fame than being Inquisitor, certainly.

“Think I want’a go with you tomorrow. The house’s feeling a bit cramped, these days.” Dorian let out a sound caught between a scoff and a guffaw.

“Has all the mystery gone, now that you’ve examined every square inch?”

“A bit. You ever hear about those old, wicked prisons? The ones where people go bonkers, namin’ all the bricks in the cell? That’s sorta what I feel like, but they’re not my bricks.”

“Yes, alright. Use grim metaphors all you like, you’re always welcome. Why you think the court will be any more interesting than here, I have no idea.”

“Suppose we’ll just have to switch places: I do all of the charming smiles and arguing with the magic-police, you sit at home and enjoy the deafening silence. You’re clever; bet you could work something up. Drink a tincture and we swap bodies, or sum’.” A long sigh passed through the space between them, but there was a smile on Dorian’s lips.

“Say any more and you’ll convince me.” He warned.

“Could cuss ‘em out nicer than you, I bet. Why’d’you never use the good Tevene phrases? _Vishante kaffas,_ what a joke that is. Should be shitting on them, of all people.”

“That’s it, I’m doing it. You’ll either ruin my reputation or catapult me straight into godhood.”

“Or both, possibly in that order.”

“Oh, certainly both.” An adoring kiss pressed to Syrillon’s lips and doting, affectionate fingers slid up along the line of his sternum. Dorian gazed down at him with the sort of soft smile he seemed to have perfected, given practice and time alone.

“Speaking of switching,” Syrillon said, hooking his leg under one of Dorian’s. He rolled them both, gently, so the other man would be against the bed. Seizing the opportunity, he peppered Dorian’s neck and chest with little kisses. “I could just smother you. You’re the sweetest man on the face of the Earth, you know that?”

“Oh no, _please,_ stop,” Dorian chimed, disingenuous in his begging, “I _loathe_ to hear about how wonderful I am and how you love me _so_ much.” A quiet flush coloured his neck all the same but he played it off in a nonchalant, barely-there smack to the elf’s shoulder.

“So smart and funny and charming,” Syrillon continued, punctuating each with another kiss, “you smell nice, you dress nice, you always know what to say. I’m so lucky.” Hands pushed gently at his shoulders, asking meekly for pause, and he brought their latest kiss to a lingering end.

“All this praise feels as though you’re leading into something.” Dorian murmured, not quite chastising. It was enough to be hopeful, as if Syrillon didn't try to shower him in that same praise every chance he'd gotten over the past years.

“Suppose that means I haven’t been saying it enough, then.”

“Hardly. There’s just something…” a weight, invisible and unusual, filled the space between them as Dorian searched his eyes. There was that same flicker of bittersweet for only a moment before it was replaced by a toothy smile.

“That means the _allure_ of mystery’s still working. Gotta keep you hooked somehow.” Syrillon ribbed. The weight diminished and Dorian let it go with an uneasy turn in his stomach. Still, he smiled past it.

“You’re certainly doing an excellent job. How long has it been? Twenty years? A hundred?”

“Counting since we met? Gotta be five-hundred.”

“Time flies when you never allow me a moments’ peace.” Dorian teased, a challenge on his lips. Syrillon’s guffaw was a mite disbelieving.

-

Overall, Syrillon’s day at court had been unusually eventful. Arguments escalated to fists thrown, which escalated to not one but _two_ stabbings on the Magisterium floor. An odd (if unsurprising) event, apparently. The air outside was tepid and less choking than in the seats, at least, so there was a break to be had from the entertainment.

Something about outdoor seating made him twitch. Dorian ate his lunch, perfectly relaxed, and it was all Syrillon could do to sit casually beside him and not glance over his shoulder every thirty seconds. Maybe it was just something about _the Magisterium,_ or _Tevinter_ or what was supposed to be his current duty of being the personal bodyguard to his own husband. The stakes were high enough already, and the tension in the air had set a foreboding enough tone. Maybe it was all the open air; the façade of a perfectly blue sky.

Honestly, thank the Maker for Iron Bull’s foresight. Some few weeks after himself and Dorian had announced their engagement, the qunari had made an entire hubbub about a gift to celebrate their… whatever. _Coming together,_ or something equally immature. It was a harness, among other things, clearly meant for some especially niche bedroom use. Dorian had callously brushed the gift aside (mostly to smother his own embarrassment), but Syrillon took it with a laugh and assured the warrior it would be put to use… sometime.

While it definitely _wasn’t_ the intended purpose, it certainly made for an excellent holster over top of clothing. That was once he took off the bit which was a holster for--

The number of knives Syrillon could stash both in and out of plain sight was, frankly, inordinate. It put him at ease a bit more, at least. To know that, should anything come about, he was more than well-armed (so to speak). Maker knew everyone in the Imperium kept some sort of weapon on them in one way or another. Dorian could work up a suitable spell quicker than he could call _assassin,_ given the right setting. That being said, assassins in the Imperium so rarely held to the same tact code of honour as Orlesian houses; terribly uncouth of them to not pencil lunch dates into their murder schedules.

It meant Syrillon wouldn’t be getting a proper lunch date of his own. So, he spent his time idling as Dorian ate, feeling unusually paranoid and sitting next to someone who seemed oblivious (or purposefully ignorant) of the unease in the air. He fiddled, as he knew he shouldn’t, to pass the time and his nerves. One blade, he kept in a shoulder holster; purely ornamental, something Dorian had handed him in a stroll through a market--finding it entertaining--and Syrillon barely remembered to put down a few silver before he up and walked away with the thing without realizing. He didn’t even notice until sometime _after_ overpaying that the thing was false; a stage prop, more or less. The sort of thing for street magicians and performers.

His pride (and his own genuine admiration for the level of detail on such a useless item) spurred him to keep it. The shoulder holster on his right side; even with a prosthesis, wielding a blade wasn’t of much use when he hadn’t the skill to use it. Anything on that side would be entirely useless to him, so why not keep it to show off? Perhaps it would scare off would-be thieves. That, and it seemed like a charming enough accessory.

Well, imagine his surprise when they left the outdoor seating only to stumble into a would-be murder attempt. Their blasé nature surrounding violence was, admittedly, still something Syrillon had yet to grow used to. It had seemed perfectly unassuming to begin with; a distressed someone-or-other, spouting something loud and unkind that made Dorian make that _face_ he always did. Nose scrunched and with a gloved hand placed protectively at his back, the Magister was escorted smoothly away.

That was, until the knife in Syrillon’s right holster was snatched away and plunged unceremoniously into someone’s chest. Plunged, perhaps, if the dull blade wouldn’t slide into place and compress its spring mechanism. The would-be murder victim was surprised, as those tend to be, and fell to the ground despite the lack of blood or wound.

Pure, unbridled chaos was the only way to define the ensuing seconds. Syrillon, startled by the thievery only until he knew just _what_ had been stolen, was just quick enough to stop the perpetrator as they attempted a mad dash. It wasn’t quite as refined or heroic as he was used to, but shoving an attempted murderer into a dining table wasn’t the worst move he’d ever tried.

It was good to know, at least, that both his own instinct and Dorian’s ability to stay firmly herded behind him and within the realm of safety were both fully intact. Someone screamed, the victim fumbled with the knife in mute horror, the murderer lay prostrate in the remains of a broken wood table. A crime foiled in under ten seconds, simply another odd layer of an only moderately-eventful day in Minrathous.

Syrillon collected his false blade, pretending as if that had _ever_ happened before, despite it being beyond the oddest thing to happen to him within the year. The victim, physically intact, was whisked away by an onlooker who knew better than a fumbling elf or his amused-seeming husband, who was already late to get back to work. Syrillon followed obediently behind as Dorian left the scene, eager to escape.

“If you weren’t so wide-eyed, I’d have assumed you planned that.” Dorian ribbed, a poorly-suppressed smile crossing his lips. Syrillon’s laugh was a mite uneasy.

“I’m just lucky he grabbed that one; should’ve been paying closer attention. I’m like a walking knife dispensary.” The hot burn of shame licked at his collar. He couldn’t even grab the wrist of some crazed laborer? What if it hadn’t been some incredible act of fate?

“Well, thank goodness for your innate dramatic flair, I suppose.”

-

“Welcome home.” Syrillon chimed, glancing up from the borrowed tome which rested precariously on his knee. Dorian’s reply was a tight sigh.

“I don’t know what they’re thinking. It’s idiotic!” He moved around the room like a whirlwind, shedding out of his day clothes and skipping through the steps of his usual routine to come crawl (or flop) into bed at the elf’s side. Syrillon was quick to lay one hand over the man’s head and give his hair an affectionate ruffle. A bad enough day to not bother with a front was a _terrible_ one, indeed. He had no idea who _they_ were, or what they’d done (as was the custom, when Dorian was upset), but he was sure he’d be agreeing if he knew.

“Do… you want’a talk about it?” He asked, tentative. There was a sigh and then Dorian laid a little more limply.

“No, it’s just…” A fist clenched and unclenched, toeing the line between bitter frustration and apathy. “...Things were stressful today. A lot to think about.” The anger in Dorian’s posture fizzled out and turned instead to weak disappointment. Syrillon set the tome aside and focused instead on running careful, soothing fingers through his hair and along the line of his back.

“I’ll bet. Can I do anything? A little song an’ dance to get your mind off it?” He kept his voice soft despite the lighthearted suggestion. Dorian sank into the bed with another sigh. “Can I give you a good old-fashioned hug?” Syrillon asked next. There was a meager nod.

As requested, he wrapped his arms round and held tight for a few lingering seconds. He pressed a kiss to Dorian’s temple while he was there, then murmured a quiet, “poor orchid. You’re wilting.” It begat another sigh. Syrillon pulled away but kept hands on him, beckoning the stress and pain out.

“That’s alright,” he said next, “I’m feeling wilty today, too. We can be miserable together.”

“Always pleased to have your company, Amatus.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read this story, and ESPECIALLY to everyone who stuck it out from the beginning!! I have a few more pieces for Dorian and this Lavellan, if you haven't read them. If you have, you're absolutely amazing and knowing I've provided you entertainment makes writing so much more worthwhile.
> 
> New content with these characters in a slightly different set-up may be coming soon. Stay tuned, if you'd like. If not, thank you very much for your time and have a fantastic day!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment letting me know your thinkies :)


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